


Strutting and Fretting

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: big bang Strutting and Fretting 'vers [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canal Boat, F/M, M/M, Romance, Theatre, wandering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Meandering down the canal, quoting random things at each other, putting on a random play. Not much happens, they just hang out on a canal boat. from Sylvie and Porthos's POV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to prompt_fills for the amazing banners, they really capture the atmosphere I was going for and I really love them. 
> 
> Thanks also to Canadian Garrison who betaed for me and was complimentary and a complete love 
> 
> WARNINGS: disphoria, depression, wanting children, Medea used in text (she kills her children). I think it's a generally happy story.

“O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention,

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,

Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire

Crouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all,

The flat unraised spirits that have dared

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object: can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? or may we cram

Within this wooden O the very casques

That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O, pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million;

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confined two mighty monarchies,

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;

Into a thousand parts divide on man,

And make imaginary puissance;

Think when we talk of horses, that you see them

Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;

For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,

Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times,

Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,

Admit me Chorus to this history;

Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.”

 

-Shakespeare, Henry V

  


 

“Mm, chicken. Dad, you are a god among men,” Sylvie says.

 

“Blasphemy? I have raised you well, I see,” her father says, helping her to a third plating of roast chicken. He adds vegetables, as well, piling them on, cooked the way she likes (just underdone, in a very little butter, a little spice). “You deserve the best, today.”

 

“Yes I do, I was fantastic. I’m getting paid and everything,” Sylvie says.

 

“Never give up, didn’t I say? And look at you now! Twenty four and already famous.”

 

Sylvie snorts. She’s been ‘known’ for the last two or so years, on the theatre circuit anyway. She gets bit parts. She writes. She gets a few leads, since a year ago and the good reception to her Hermia. Her father celebrates each success as if it’s her first. Even if it was a week ago the play closed, and reviews have come and gone. He’s a busy man, she knows that. She also knows that he came to half a matinee and half an evening performance, though he never mentions it when he doesn’t get to stay the whole time. He thinks it’s cheating, taking credit for something he didn’t do. Getting a tick in the ‘good Dad’ column when he feels he isn’t.

 

“I love you,” Sylvie says, smiling at him.

 

“Of course, I’m brilliant. Did you finish up for tonight, or are you working after you get home?”

 

“I’m writing, but not much. Just seeing what comes,” Sylvie says. “Maybe do an hour or two.”

 

“Tomorrow is an audition?”

 

“Mm, for the duchess of Malfi. I doubt I will get it,” Sylvie says. “They say colour blind casting, but consciously colour blind is different from ‘unaffected by the underlying structures of society that create impressions and ideas’. Preconceived whatevers.”

 

“Shall I switch from theatre to theatre? Surgery is getting boring. I shall revolutionize the world of acting for you.”

 

Sylvie laughs, leaning back in her chair. He’ll give her a talk, now, about history and race and creative arts. He will fish among the ephemera of his mind, finding long ago read texts, recalling discussions and lectures and rallies, and he will tell her a history. He’s never been one for pep-talks, more interested in activism and education. Unless she is hurt. When she gets hurt, he turns soft as butter and envelopes her in it. The talk comes, and passes, and she finishes her chicken. Constance is picking her up in the car, on her way back from somewhere or other. Visiting a girlfriend, Sylvie thinks. Constance had been vague and coy about it.

 

“Connie will be here in about half an hour, Dad, so if you want help with the dishes?” Sylvie says.

 

“No no, leave it. Coffee in the living-room?”

 

Coffee means he wants to talk over big ideas with her some more. She finds she’s not opposed to that idea, so she curls in his big armchair, takes a deep breath, and accepts her warm mug. They talk about family, in the end. He updates her on various cousins, spread across the globe. His voice is warm and familiar, and he eventually, as he often does on quiet cosy evenings, gets on to her mother. Sylvie loves that. He talks of her with such affectionate love, such absolute joy and sorrow; such exhilaration to have known her and such grief that she’s gone. And such ongoing, endless love. It encompasses Sylvie, too, the miracle of a child, so tiny she nearly fit in one of his hands, the beauty of her and her mother.

 

Constance’s interruption of that is unwanted, but Constance’s presence is as quiet and warm as the room. She sits on the arm of Sylvie’s chair, soft, and listens to her father speaking on. They stay like that for twenty minutes, Sylvie slowly gravitating to the familiar body until she’s cradled against Connie’s side, her cheek resting against Constance’s stomach. It’s like being small, listening to stories. She thinks of all the stories that come and go, all the threads that make up her life, and wonders where on earth it’ll all lead. The uncanny, unsteady balance on a tightrope that her career of choice is, stretches uncertainly before her. Constance is the only surety in it, the only person she really knows among the whirl of ‘creatives’.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_ _

_ “What do you mean, ‘I’m living on a boat’?” _

 

_ “It’s quite self explanatory, du Vallon.” _

 

_ “No it isn’t. You live on a boat? Why? How? Why not rent a nice little room? Isn’t de la Fere some kind of dukedom, aren’t you floating in money?” _

 

_ “I merely float upon the Bancroft Basin.” _

 

_ Porthos watches Athos, kitted out in costume of white stockings, poofy trousers, doublet, hat and sword, swish off across the stage.  _

 

_ “[Mad world! Mad kings! Mad composition!](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7) _ _ ” Porthos roars after him.  _

 

_ Athos laughs, doing a twirl and raising his sword in a salute.  _

 

That, Porthos always explains, is how he ends up drunk on a canal boat in the middle of the Warwickshire countryside, trying to work out which way round to use the windlass, with Athos yelling at him in French, Aramis idly bellowing Shakespeare, and d’Artagnan standing behind him, hands on hips, making unhelpful suggestions. When people ask Aramis the same question, Aramis just points at Porthos. d’Artagnan has a long and cheerful answer that includes words like ‘honour’ and ‘awesome’. 

 

“Shut up,” Porthos mutters, finally getting the paddles open and emptying the lock. Athos gives a cry of joy as he bobs slowly down, and Porthos can’t help laughing at him. 

 

“More wine, my love?” Aramis calls. 

 

d’Artagnan jumps down onto the boat before it gets too low to take up the offer, leaving Porthos to go open the gate on his own. He ignores their shouting at him to hurry up, and makes sure all the paddles and gates are closed with careful conscientiousness. 

 

“[The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=romeo%20and%20juliet&oq=romeo%20and%20&aqs=chrome.0.0j69i57j0l4.1760j0j9)

[ Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light, ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=romeo%20and%20juliet&oq=romeo%20and%20&aqs=chrome.0.0j69i57j0l4.1760j0j9)

[ And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=romeo%20and%20juliet&oq=romeo%20and%20&aqs=chrome.0.0j69i57j0l4.1760j0j9)

[ From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=romeo%20and%20juliet&oq=romeo%20and%20&aqs=chrome.0.0j69i57j0l4.1760j0j9) ,” Aramis calls up to him. 

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Porthos grumbles. “You better have saved me some more wine. Are we mooring soon? It’s far from morning, Aramis, you ass.”

 

He climbs back into the boat. Athos hands him half a glass of wine, looking guilty and furtive. Porthos pretends not to notice that Athos has already drunk most of it. 

 

“Who’s doing the stuff?” d’Artagnan asks. 

 

“I am terribly afraid that I have reached my twenty eighth year without having any clue how to ‘do the stuff’. Unless, of course, you are speaking euphemistically. If you mean how to drive this hunk of a boat, I have no idea though,” Aramis says. 

 

“Me either,” d’Artagnan says. 

 

“Porthos can do it,” Athos says, sprawling on floor, pulling a hat over his face. “He’s thirty. Once you hit thirty, you know how. It’s instinct. Plus, I showed him ages ago.”

 

Porthos goes to the stern and plays about until he works out what he’s doing. He has driven and steered before, but he was drunk then, too. Or tipsy. He’s not drunk. Just vaguely less sober than one might be. He has no clue where he’s headed, or where they’re supposed to be mooring, so he just finds the first short term mooring and ties them up. He finds everyone else asleep. He flops down on top of Aramis, using him as a pillow, pulls a blanket over them, and joins the slumber. 

 

He wakes to the shriek of Aramis being shoved unceremoniously into the canal. This isn’t unusual - d’Artagnan likes to do it. Porthos hopes there are showers at this mooring so Aramis doesn’t drip ducky water everywhere. Athos grumbles and mutters and sits on Porthos. Porthos wants to go back to sleep, but Athos nudges him and pokes him until he stumbles up through the hatch to the bows with him. 

 

“I am wet and smell of fish!” Aramis shouts, climbing back aboard, making for d’Artagnan. 

 

“That’s what happens if you fart too much in a sardine tin!” d’Artagnan yells, shuffling along the side and leaping onto the bank, sprinting off. 

 

“It did stink in there,” Athos mumbles. “We should air it out.”

 

Porthos plonks himself down, and waits for breakfast to make an appearance, hoping it’s not wine. It has been, the last two mornings. His stomach isn’t going to be happy if Athos keeps feeding him wine, mostly wine, and wine-with-cassis-so-it’s-nearly-juice. Athos wanders off to open the hatches and windows, and hopefully cook breakfast. Without the others around, it’s peaceful, the quiet lull of the water, the early morning chill, just a duck for company. Porthos looks out, breathing deeply, and sighs. He watches the duck for a bit. It’s joined by a moorhen, peeping as it swims, a tiny flotilla of tiny baby moorhens peeping along in its wake. 

 

“Look,” Porthos says, hearing Aramis climbing back aboard. “Babies.”

 

“Broody,” Aramis says, sitting to wrap his arms around Porthos. He’s wet. “Don’t fuss, I found a shower. I got d’Art in fully clothed and put a stick through the handle.”

 

“Cruel. Are you naked?” 

 

“Nope. Underpants. Where’s our captain?”

 

“Pissing, cooking, dunno.”

 

Aramis and Porthos watch the babies idly. d’Artagnan manages to escape and joins them, cooing and ducking inside for some seed to try and entice the moorhens closer. They just get ducks and a fucking great goose who hisses at them and scares everything away. 

 

“[You souls of geese, that bear the shapes of men](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=coriolanus&oq=coriolanus&aqs=chrome..69i57.358j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8) ,” Porthos murmurs, leaning back into Aramis. 

 

“Breakfast,” Athos says, sticking his head out. “It’s not wine.”

 

It’s eggs and toast and bacon, and Porthos asks Athos to marry him in gratitude. After breakfast, Athos works out where they actually are and plots another day out for them. Porthos would prefer to stay moored, but Athos needs to move. 

 

_ “[I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7) _

[ _ My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife; _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7)

[ _ Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost. _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7)

[ _ I am not mad-I would to heaven I were! _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7)

[ _ For then 'tis like I should forget myself. _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7)

[ _ O, if I could, what grief should I forget! _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7)

[ _ Preach some philosophy to make me mad. _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=king%20john%20shakespeare%20pdf&oq=king%20john%20pdf&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j0l5.6073j0j7) _ ” _

 

_ Porthos watches, but he doesn’t watch Constance, playing Constance. He watches Athos, who’s knelt on the edge of the stage weeping. He makes a beautiful and tragic King John, bringing fragility to the role that Prothos admires. Athos isn’t even in this scene, he’s just watching, kneeling on the stage, weeping.  _

 

_ No one else seems to have noticed. Before they do, Athos quietly leaves. Porthos follows, half curious, half worried. A little sympathetic. Constance plays the shrewish woman, the comedy, and then the grief, all at once, and you find yourself laughing, then being startled into grief. Porthos feels it’s real Shakespeare, to do that. To have such a command of the audience’s emotion.  _

 

_ Athos retreats to his dressing room, and Porthos, who’s spent many happy hours sozzled in there, follows him in without knocking. Athos turns accusatory eyes on him, red and wet and desperate, and Porthos, surprised by the depth of the pain, steps back, accidentally shutting them in with one another.  _

 

_ “Athos,” Porthos says, shocked.  _

 

_ “What?” Athos says, anger giving way to weariness. _

 

_ “I thought you were just touched by the speech,” Porthos says.  _

 

_ “No.” _

 

_ Athos doesn’t offer anything else, but he does offer wine, and when he’s drunk and talking wistfully about holidays and canals and countryside, Porthos finds himself making an offer.  _

 

“I miss my girlfriend,” Athos grumbles. 

 

He’s lying flat on his back on the roof of the boat while Aramis and d’Artagnan fight over who gets the tiller. The boat’s drifting in idle zigzags, neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan having a grasp on how to make it go quite yet. Porthos is straddling the roof by Athos’s feet, trying to get the satellite to work so they can pick up the wifi he got at the pub on the bank. 

 

“You’re drunk,” Porthos says. 

 

“My work wife, my Juliet.”

 

“Juliet is fifteen and dies. Sylvie?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Yes. She’s lovely. I love her.”

 

“You absurd man,” Porthos says. 

 

“What? Why? I like her, she likes me, we had sex.”

 

Porthos just grunts. He liked Sylvie well enough, and she’d managed to get a smile out of Athos. 

 

“She was lovely,” Athos says again. “Maybe I’ll ring her.”

 

“You’re drunk,” Porthos says, again. 

 

“I bet she’d meet us somewhere.”

 

“Yes, maybe she would. I think this is working now,” Porthos says. “I’m going to go watch Deep Space Nine.”

 

“I’m coming,” Athos says, getting up. “I wanna watch Aramis be a Federation Doctor.”

 

“He is quite like Bashir, isn’t he?” Porthos says, sliding off and inching along to the hatch. He hands Athos into the boat, making Athos laugh. 

 

The beds are still out, nothing put away or tidied up from the night before. At least they made it to the stage of getting the beds out last night, and didn’t just sleep on the floor. Athos sets up the laptop on the table and they curl up on the bed, Athos snuggling close, snuffling his way through some tears. 

 

“Alright?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Just fucking sad,” Athos mutters, rubbing his nose into Porthos’s shirt. “And now snotty.”

 

“Netflix, DS9, don’t use me as a tissue,” Porthos says. “I’ll make you a cuppa when this episode’s over.”

 

Aramis comes and joins them, tucking himself in close, too. Porthos wonders how long one has to spend around people with depression before it rubs off. When his episode is over, he leaves them tangled together to comfort each other and watch TV, and goes up on deck. He forgets his promise of a cuppa. d’Artagnan’s sat in the bows, with his tablet and a beer, shirt off. He smiles a welcome. 

 

“Need a break?” d’Artagnan asks. “They’re a bit intense, aren’t they?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, getting his own beer out of the cooler and sitting beside d’Artagnan. “How’re you?”

 

“Coping just fine,” d’Artagnan says, beaming. “You know, the slow pace and the water really calms my anxiety.”

 

“You’re all basket cases,” Porthos grumbles. 

 

“Aw, baby,” d’Artagnan says, laughing. “Do you feel left out of the mentally weird club? You can be mentally weird.”

 

“Fuck off,” Porthos says. “Shall we walk across to the river, take a dip? Before we get too drunk?”

 

“Yes! Like in that film, about the circus kid. True Tilda. I loved that film. Maybe it’s on the internet, I should check. I’ll go tell them we’re going swimming.”

 

d’Artagnan’s still chattering away when he vanishes into the boat. For a moment, Porthos considers leaving, getting some space by himself. It’s been a week they’ve been shut up on this sardine tin together, and it’s beginning to frustrate him. Tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll get some alone time. He follows d’Artagnan back inside to find swimming things. 

 

“I’m coming with you, my love,” Aramis says. “If that’s alright?”

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, rummaging through their clothes. 

 

He finds what he needs, but he doesn’t want it, and he rummages again, frustration, and the tiny space, and Aramis and Athos being miserable, turning him quickly to anger and irritation. When Aramis comes and rummages at his side, Porthos growls and tears out of the boat, tugging the swimming trunks and rash vest out of the pile as the best bet, though he doesn’t want them. He jumps onto the bank and walks toward the river, ignoring the others. 

 

Aramis quickly catches him up, stilling him. He touches Porthos’s cheek, gives him a smile, and a kiss, and then embraces him. He places his hands firmly and confidently, avoiding the binder and the the sore bits of Porthos. Porthos sighs and relaxes, letting go of his upset, wrapping himself around Aramis, burrowing into him. 

 

“You smell like duck shit,” Porthos says. 

 

“How romantic, my darling,” Aramis says, laughing. “d’Art shoved me into the canal again this morning, remember? It’s hardly my fault if I have a delicate stomach.”

 

“You are fucking gassy,” Porthos says. 

 

“It’s all the wine.”

 

“I’ll just squeeze it all out of you before tonight,” Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis. 

 

“Are you alright?” Aramis asks, dropping his ‘Aramis’ performance for a moment, seriously and quietly and just for Porthos. 

 

“Yeah. Just, being around you guys, I’d forgotten. Forgotten my body, and not fitting into it, and feeling like people are looking at it. When I’m out, doing things, I’m usually aware of it. Of the, the, my hips and breasts and… the stuff I don’t feel like is me. You know? Just, been comfortable.”

 

“Yeah, I know. For me, it’s nice to be around d’Art and Athos, who understand my stuff.”

 

“Not me?”

 

“You I always want to be around, numpty. I also want to be in the river, and d’Art and Athos are coming.”

 

“Athos came?”

 

“Yeah. Is that okay? Did you want time to yourself?”

 

“No. Tomorrow. Maybe we could go back to the boat and I could have a good cry, instead of a swim.”

 

“How come when I’m miserable you scarper to the bows, but when you’re miserable I have to come cuddle with you?”

 

“I cuddled with you, and you had Athos! He’s like a little human teddy bear, he’s so little and cute,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos gives him a shove as he passes, grumbling. Aramis turns, letting Porthos go, and gives a war-cry, leaping onto Athos’s back, arms around his neck, laughing wildly as Athos staggers. Athos rolls with it, hoiking Aramis on into a piggy back and bearing him in a weaving path toward the river. Away from Porthos and potential cuddles. d’Artagnan jogs after them, stopping them toppling into the canal. Porthos supposes swimming is probably a better idea than moping anyway, and follows, taking his time. Athos manages to carry Aramis all the way to the river, then pitches him into the water. It seems that this is going to be a holiday of dunkings for Aramis. Porthos stands, holding onto his swimming things, watching Aramis splash about. d’Artagnan strips, completely un-self-conscious, and changes openly. Even Athos gets undressed, revealing his trunks under his clothes, the scars on his chest, uncaring. 

 

“He got his top surgery done, though,” Porthos mutters. 

 

“You’re lovely,” Aramis says, giving him a wet cuddle. “Come in like this, eh?”

 

Porthos shoves him off. He lets Aramis hold a towel around him, making him a little changing room, though. He also lets Aramis peek in to lech on him and make lustful comments and give him kisses. He’s laughing by the time he’s changed, Aramis looking fondly on. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quotes are linked to sources


	3. Chapter 3

“[How with mine honour may I give him that which I have given to you](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=twelfth%20night%20pdf&oq=twelfth%20night%20pdf&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.4063j0j9)?”

 

Sylvie gazes at Constance. At Olivia. She shuts her eyes and reaches, cradling Constance’s face, pressing their foreheads together. 

 

“I will acquit you,” she says, as gently as she can, presses a kiss to Constance’s cheek, and leaves quickly. 

 

“Well, come again tomorrow!” Constance calls after her. “fare thee well: a fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell!”

 

Sylvie waits for Constance to finish, then goes back out onto stage to get her notes. She and Constance walk back to their dressing room arm in arm. 

 

“Last night, tomorrow,” Constance says. “You ready to move on?”

 

“I’m going to have a holiday. With Athos.”

 

“Oh, with  _ Athos, _ ” Constance says, pressing close. 

 

“Mm hmm,” Sylvie says, grinning. “And with the other three. In a canal boat. I think there is going to be far less sex than I would deem ‘good’.”

 

Constance snorts and sputters into unquenchable laughter. They’re sharing a dressing room, to help them have great gay chemistry on stage or something. It’s helpful, really, because getting in and out of Olivia’s posh dresses is a pain. The costumes are period, not updated for once, and intricate and difficult. Sylvie is always boasting that she gets simpler ones she can get easily in and out of, to become Cessario. 

 

“I definitely have the better part,” Sylvie says, helping Constance out of the dress. “Babe, where are your knickers?”

 

“They didn’t like the line of them!” Constance says, standing in nothing but her bra. “Are you going to ravish me,  _ Cessario _ ? Best part? Um, nope, I get to be gayer.”

 

“I get to be trans-er,” Sylvie says, finding Constance’s pants and throwing them at her. 

 

“Okay, we’re both happily queer,” Constance says. “You want help getting out of your trousers?”

 

“Go away you lech, why are you trying to flirt with me?”

 

“I’m bored, and a bit horny. d’Art’s away with your Athos, soaking in wine, meandering in probable-wiggly lines on the canals of England. Being a bloke.”

 

“He’s the least gay of us all.”

 

“Oi, he’s bi, and he’s happy, and he loves me, and fuck off,” Constance says, more stung than Sylvie meant by the teasing. 

 

“Sorry,” Sylvie says, turning away to get out of her costume. 

 

“Just something someone else said,” Constance mutters. “Come here and help me get these breasts right, I think they’re too high on my chest, they’re gonna pop out and hit me chin.”

 

Sylvie is half-sure Constance’s insistent nakedness (she is quite often parading about without her clothes) is a demand, from both herself and Sylvie, for acceptance. Sylvie is happy to give it. She’s also happy to adjust Constance’s bra and padding. 

 

“I love these fake boobs,” Sylvie says, giving the gel a squeeze. 

 

“I’m the lech?” Constance says, pushing her away, then pulling her back. “I want to kiss you.”

 

“I don’t know if Athos would approve,” Sylvie says, breathing in Constance’s space, hand clenching in her shirt. “Come with me. See d’Artagnan, have sex, find out?”

 

“I do like d’Artagnan. He’s so lithe and skinny, like a fish.”

 

“You want to have fish sex?”

 

Constance laughs and shoves Sylvie away, cajoling her until she dresses, so they can go for drinks. Everyone else is gone, they were kept back to go over that stupid scene. Apparently it wasn’t sexy enough, tonight. 

 

“I’ll come with you,” Constance says, later, a little sozzled. “Athos has grrrreat taste in wine.”

 

Constance gets more than a little sozzled, on closing, and when they drive down through Warwickshire toward the postcode Athos sent her, Constance is supremely hungover, and supremely useless as company. Sylvie puts on the radio instead, and sings along to JLS. It has the added bonus of making Constance groan. 

 

“It’s your own fault,” Sylvie says, cheerfully. “I’m hungry. Do you think the boys have food, as well as wine?”

 

“No. I don’t think they do. They probably think the grapes in the wine count as food,” Constance says. 

 

“Twits,” Sylvie says, feeling fond and happy and pleased with herself and the world around her. 

 

She parks at the house Athos promises her is perfectly happy to host her car. Apparently it’s his and he rents it out but he reserves the right to use the garage because it’s near the canal. Or something. It had been convoluted and he’d been tipsy. It’s just outside a tiny little village, Napton-on-the-Hill, little more than a canal and a handful of houses. 

 

“What are we looking for?” Constance asks, trudging down the canal path after Sylvie. 

 

“A Marina, and then, apparently,  _ A Strange Fish _ ,” Sylvie says. 

 

The canal is pretty. They find the marina, and  _ A Strange Fish _ . It’s not too hard, what with d’Artagnan shoving Aramis off the stern into the water and Aramis shrieking first in shock, then in outrage, and then chasing d’Artagnan around. Sylvie and Constance both climb aboard. 

 

“Ahoy!” Sylvie calls, scrambling along the side to reach the stern where Athos is. 

 

He’s sat on the edge of the roof, feet dangling over the hatch. As Sylvie shouts he jumps down and comes to meet her, catching her in his arms and lifting her down, kissing her senseless, breathless. 

 

“Stop it,” Constance says. “Why did Aramis get pushed in?”

 

“Dunno, either he farted, or he ate d’Art’s breakfast, or he did something else,” Porthos says. He sounds about as grumpy as Constance. 

 

“We need to go,” Athos says. “I got us a place to stay, down the canal a bit. A little cottage.”

 

“Not me, I suppose,” Porthos says. “I suppose I’ve gotta stay on board and get scurvy.”

 

“Told you they wouldn’t have food,” Constance says. 

 

Athos is casting off, hurrying around the boat, beaming. He stops whenever he passes Sylvie to kiss her, cradle her cheek, smile widely at her. She sits on the roof where he was and watches. Porthos and Constance duck inside, both grumbling, both after food, exchanging hungover commiseration. 

 

“Oi!” Aramis yells ,from the dock, sprinting up as Athos starts to pull away from the mooring. 

 

“Knew you’d make it,” Athos says, equably.

 

d’Artagnan has to jump, but they both get on board. They join the grouchy people inside, leaving Sylvie and Athos alone. 

 

“[Journeys end in lovers meeting](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=twelfth%20night%20pdf&oq=twelfth%20night%20pdf&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.4063j0j9) ,” Athos says, smiling up at her. “How was your run?”

 

“Good, I think. We got good reviews. Did you read the Guardian one?”

 

“Online, when you sent it to me. Well, two days after you sent it to me when Porthos managed to cadge us some wifi. Very complimentary, well deserved. You’re brilliant.”

 

“I am.”

 

Athos lets go of the tiller to lean up to her, and their breath mingles before he kisses her. 

 

“You smell of wine,” Sylvie says. 

 

“I had it for breakfast.”

 

“Not an antidepressant I approve of, but I’m not your nurse, so drink on.”

 

“If wine be the food of love, drink on,” Athos says, chuckling to himself. 

 

They bump into the bank and get shouts of outrage from inside. Sylvie laughs, tugging Athos into a better kiss before letting him get back to steering. They bump into several more things as they go, including another boat. Athos ties them up for a while, and kisses her silly until Porthos comes up and goes to open the locks. 

 

“I’ve never been on a canal boat. Well, except the time I attempted to use you as the sexless inn-keeper,” Sylvie says.

 

“But I melted your heart with my big beautiful eyes,” Athos says. 

 

“It was that ponytail, and the tights,” Sylvie says. “And what can I say? Prince Hal turns me on. It was for Harry, England, and saint George.”

 

“Hal is Henry the Fourth, I was Henry the Fifth.”

 

“You did the Harry England and st George bit.”

 

“I did. It was great. [Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close up England with our dead! No, wait... ](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/henryv/henryv.3.1.html) [ Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  ](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/henryv/henryv.3.1.html) [then imitate the action of the tiger](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/henryv/henryv.3.1.html). ”

 

Athos dramatizes it as he goes, fleshing out the words, evoking the battle field, the prince, the glory of war. Then he does a little growl, and a clawing motion with his hand, and falls about laughing, bumping the boat into the wall of the lock as they rise up. 

 

“[They rise knees up, knees up, knees up, they rise knees up, knees up high!](http://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/All_The_Little_Angels) ” Athos roars, as they bob slowly higher, laughing at himself, beaming at Sylvie. 

 

“Christ you’re jolly,” Porthos mutters, as he climbs back aboard. He wraps himself briefly around Athos on his way past, and smiles warmly at Sylvie, as if this is her doing and he approves. 

 

Sylvie puts her legs to the side to allow him entry back into the barge, biting her lip, pleased with his welcome of her. Athos is jolly, either with wine or with sunshine or, and this option Sylvie hopes is the reason, with her. She likes him, likes him as Henry, likes him as Athos, liked him an awful lot as Antonio, when she was Malfi. That was a beautiful costume. 

 

[ _ “Heaven fashion'd us of nothing; and we strive _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=duchess%20of%20malfi&oq=duchess%20of%20malfi&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2347j0j9)

[ _ To bring ourselves to nothing.--Farewell, Cariola, _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=duchess%20of%20malfi&oq=duchess%20of%20malfi&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2347j0j9)

[ _ And thy sweet armful.--If I do never see thee more, _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=duchess%20of%20malfi&oq=duchess%20of%20malfi&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2347j0j9)

[ _ Be a good mother to your little ones, _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=duchess%20of%20malfi&oq=duchess%20of%20malfi&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2347j0j9)

[ _ And save them from the tiger:  fare you well.” _ ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=duchess%20of%20malfi&oq=duchess%20of%20malfi&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2347j0j9)

 

_ Athos’s kiss stills and silences Sylvie for a moment. She can’t help herself; it’s him, not Antonio, not acting, just him, his body against hers. His familiar body. She is going to break her promise to herself, and sleep with him again. She can’t deny herself this. She plays with the moment, coming back to her Malfi, opening her eyes as if they drag.  _

 

[](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=duchess%20of%20malfi&oq=duchess%20of%20malfi&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2347j0j9) _ “Let me look upon you once more, for that speech _ __  
_ Came from a dying father.  Your kiss is colder _ __  
_ Than that I have seen an holy anchorite _ _  
_ __ Give to a dead man's skull.”

 

_ She lets her voice rise in pitch at the last, lets herself reach for him, lets herself drop back, let him go. The dead man’s skull echoes, before Athos draws the scene to a close. He lets Sylvie have the stage, lets his closing line be an addendum, lets her take the scene from him. She doesn’t mean to do it, but he allows it, gives it. As Antonio would, and should. She turns to the audience, and slowly turns away, letting the weight of their parting lie.  _

 

_ They get a standing ovation, and a second call to bow, and when they finally are released from notes and going over bits of text and being told off for forgetting a line (Athos) and tripping over a sword (Sylvie), they can finally, finally bundle into Athos’s dressing room. Sylvie gasps against his mouth, pushing until he kneels, the costume of Antonio carefully muted, simple, flattering. Easy to see at her feet, on his knees. Soft and tight enough to follow his curves and planes and muscles.  _

 

_ Sylvie unbelts his sword and takes it for herself, laying it against his shoulder, his neck. He gazes up at her as if wrapt, awed, seduced. Hers. Entirely hers.  _

 

“Drink to me with thine eyes,” Athos says, bending to fetch a wine bottle, half empty, “and I shall… what comes next? Fuck. Aramis is better at Jonson, and the poetry of seduction. He’d probably blurt Donne at you.”

 

“I wouldn’t, actually,” Aramis says, popping up between her thighs. “Oh! Hello, legs. Sorry!”

 

“Move you twot,” Sylvie says, shoving him so he’s no longer right there.

 

She’s known Aramis a bit longer than Athos, and likes him quite well. He’s fond of her, too, which doesn’t hurt. 

 

“What should I quote, then?” Athos asks. 

 

“[Sleep on while I am talking, I am just arranging the curtains over your naked breasts](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/ecstasy) ,” Aramis says. 

 

Sylvie laughs, hopping down to get the wine from Athos, tucking herself in behind him, out of the way of the tiller, holding on so as not to fall in. 

 

“My breasts aren’t naked,” Sylvie says. 

 

“My darling’s napping,” Aramis says, sighing. “I thought I’d come steal the company of yours, Athos.”

 

“Nope,” Athos says. “She’s keeping me company. Wait, did you mean Sylvie? Is Sylvie my darling?”

 

“Yes, you fish,” Aramis says. 

 

“Everyone’s got fish on the brain,” Sylvie says. “Do you think d’Artagnan particularly piscine?”

 

Aramis ducks back inside, leaving Athos to contemplate the fish-like-ness of d’Artagnan without help. He doesn’t bother to answer, and before long, he’s mooring them again, ducking inside for her bag and another, his own, and handing her up onto the bank. He takes her to a small cottage, a large bed, a kitchen. He makes her dinner and gives her wine and quotes sonnets at her, and then she cuts him short before he gets himself too tangled up, or too drunk, and takes him upstairs. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“You know what we should do?” d’Artagnan says. “Guys? I came to tell you my idea.”

 

It’s about three am, and they’re all asleep except for Athos and d’Artagnan who stayed up, sat in the bows drinking wine. So no one’s particularly happy to have d’Artagnan scrambling and tripping around the packed barge, falling on top of them. Porthos puts a stop to it by wrapping himself around d’Artagnan, stilling him. d’Artagnan gives an experimental wriggle, but he’s trapped. Porthos grunts in contentment and goes back to sleep.

 

They’re woken again about half an hour later when Athos comes looking for d’Artagnan, finally noticing he’s gone. He too stumbles and trips and ends up, squished and squeezed so they both fit, held in Porthos’s grip. Once they’re both asleep, Porthos shifts them until they’re clinging to one another instead of him, turns over, and pushes his face into Aramis’s shoulder until Aramis throws an arm over his waist. Then he goes to sleep, too.

 

Porthos wakes again to Sylvie and Constance talking in the galley, the smell of coffee, and food. He gets up and staggers through, sitting on the floor, hoping he’ll be gifted with some of the good smelling things. He’s given coffee but no food. Once he’s more awake he gets himself a bowl of cereal and goes out to the stern, scrambling up to sit on the roof, his legs off the side, looking at the canal.

 

It’s a nice spot, not too many people moored, every mooring short term so no old chairs and bikes and piles of crap littering the tow-path. Just their little boat, bobbing on the calm water, and the ducks. Not even geese, yet. A duck with two ducklings, grown grey and big but still cute, floats past. Porthos eats his cereal in contentment.

 

He’s interrupted by Aramis and d’Artagnan coming out to the stern, and Aramis grinning widely and so happily up at Porthos that Porthos knows there’s trouble on the way. Sure enough, Aramis pushes d’Artagnan in, causing a splash, disrupting the ducks and the ducklings and the calm water and Porthos’’s breakfast. Aramis climbs up to sit beside him, laughing, watching d’Artagnan splash for the bank.

 

“I’m going to get you, d’Herblay!” d’Artagnan shouts, trudging toward the shower.

 

Porthos shuffles along away from Aramis, which turns out to be a good idea: a moment later d’Artagnan changes tack sharply, vaulting up onto the boat and sliding into Aramis, knocking him into the water. And sailing after him. They both come up spluttering and laughing.

 

“Is every morning like this?” Sylvie asks, coming along the side from the bows and climbing up beside Porthos.

 

“Mm hmm,” Porthos says. “Except yesterday. Yesterday you were here for.”

 

“No swimming. What decides it?”

 

“Apparently how much Aramis farts. He’s been drinking less wine,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan have gone to the shower now, and the water’s returning to it’s peace. Porthos would quite like to be left on his own, but Sylvie seems to be settling in to stay and Athos is making his groggy, careful way to them from the stern. Aramis also joins them, when he’s showered. He sits behind Porthos, wriggling until Porthos is comfortably between his thighs. He’s got just shorts on, and Porthos wants to grumble about sun and sunburn, but it’s actually clouding over so he’ll have to find something else to channel his grouchiness into.

 

“So, I think we should turn the boat into a stage,” d’Artagnan says, as if continuing a conversation from earlier, wrapped in a towel, shouting from the stern.

 

“Go put clothes on,” Porthos growls.

 

“Don’t be grumpy,” Aramis says, kissing at his neck.

 

d’Artagnan does go to get clothes, and to get Constance. He makes sure they’re all listening, then puts his idea to them again.

 

“A stage. We can use the roof,” d’Artagnan says. “Something with pirates in it.”

 

“And when we all fall in?” Porthos mutters.

 

“We won’t,” d’Artagnan says, beaming like a fool. “We could dramatise Some Like it Hot, you love that film, Porthos.”

 

“No I don’t,” Porthos says.

 

“Or, or! We could do The Wind in the Willows!” Aramis says. “I’ll be Ratty. You can be Moley, Porthos. They’re gay.”

 

“They’re animals. d’Artagnan can be the toad,” Porthos says.

 

“What about ‘Down the River’? Mark Twain,” Sylvie says. “He was obsessed with rivers.”

 

“And you were obsessed with him,” Athos says, proudly, kissing her. “What about ‘The Weir’, Colin Macpherson?”

 

“Is that the terribly depressing thing you did in London a few years ago?” Porthos asks. “Jesus no.”

 

“The Tempest,” is Constance’s suggestion.

 

“What do you think, Porthos?” Sylvie asks. “Mark Twain, right?”

 

Porthos sighs, and gives in. So what if this is supposed to be a holiday, about taking Athos away from the theatre and work.

 

“We’ll do Medea,” Porthos says.

 

“That has nothing to do with canal boats!” Sylvie says, then falls backwards laughing.

 

Porthos smiles, reluctantly, but holds his ground. He wants to do Medea, and he will do Medea. He is, afterall, the director.

 

_“What’s his name?” Porthos asks, not for the first time. It’s a weird name and it’s just not sticking._

 

_“Aramis,” Flea tells him, losing her patience a little bit._

 

_Porthos sighs, but steps into the theatre to meet Aramis. It’s not that none of the actors he meets fits the role. It’s more than he’d prefer it if Charon were there, as usual. And none of the actors are Charon. Which is a problem, because Charon is brilliant._

 

_“Hi, I’m Aramis. I’ve been here a while, are you the guy I’m auditioning for?”_

 

_Porthos grunts and sits, middle of the audience, flicking through his script._

 

_“Right. And you wrote this? You wrote, and are directing? That’s cool, that’s cool. I understand I’m coming in halfway into rehearsals, which is a bummer, but I like the part. Maybe we’ll all become famous from it, huh? That would be cool.”_

 

_“Could you just give me the first scene? I’ll feed you lines. Then the soliloquy you prepared, then you’ll go through the final scene with Flea,” Porthos says._

 

_“Right! Yes, I prepared that, and I was given two scenes, before you came in. The first one, right! I can totally do that.”_

 

_“Did the damsons make good gin, this year?” Porthos says, ignoring the fluster and giving him the line._

 

_To Porthos’s surprise, after tripping his way through the first line, Aramis plays it easily. He times the comedy right, and his physicality is great - Porthos even finds himself chuckling at the way Aramis spins in surprise._

 

_“Okay, that’s enough,” Porthos says, stopping Aramis halfway through a line. Aramis just nods, settling mid stage with an inane grin. “Soliloquy?”_

 

_Aramis does ‘My Last Duchess’. Porthos groans internally at first, but Aramis bring the silent interlocutor to life and speaks as if Porthos is the duchess, and it’s a little chilling. Porthos feels haunted, when Aramis gets done. Then Aramis gives a wide grin. Flea gets up on the stage without being asked and there’s a nice verbal tussle, but Porthos ignores the scene, looking between his two actors, searching for the spark. It isn’t Charon. It never will be Charon, he and Flea and Porthos had a bond. It works, though. Aramis flirts, and bickers, and nudges, and Flea seems open to it._

 

_“Fine,” Porthos says. “Come in tomorrow, in the morning. We have no particular start time, tomorrow, we’re just rattling through lines and checking stuff, but I do mean morning. Don’t show up at twelve.”_

 

_“There’s one certain way to making sure I show up in the morning,” Aramis purs, slinking down to Porthos’s seat. “I like your play, Mr. du Vallon. Maybe you could show me more… of your writing? Hmm?”_

 

_“God, stop flirting with me and go away. Flea will probably take you for a drink. Flea! I’m going, lock up when you’re done pottering about!”_

 

_“You are terribly rude and mean,” Aramis says. No, he purrs it. Pouting. Hand against Porthos’s chest. Porthos stares at the hand, then at Aramis, and the hand gets removed. The pout vanishes. “Ah, sorry, I overstepped with that one.”_

 

_“Mm,” Porthos agrees._

 

_“Pick up lines are a no, ridiculous flirting is a no. Is this a ‘we’re working together please be professional’ thing? Because I rarely am,” Aramis says, grinning. “And you’re very very lovely.”_

 

 _“I think this constitutes harassment,” Porthos says. But he can’t imagine that Aramis is going to get_ more _professional. He does a quick sum in his head, calculating if he can work with this, then calculating if he can work with this if he does what he wants to do. He decides, for one show, why not. “Fine. A drink. But. Only when I’m done directing you. If you still want to get a drink, I’m up for it. Flirt all you like, be unproffessional. So long as you’re respectful, leave the women alone, they put up with enough from fucker they don’t need it from their colleagues, and do the part well, we’re set.”_

 

 _“I will collect on the that drink with you, Porthos. Flea! Will_ you _drink with me tonight?”_

 

“The river is the rivers Styx and Acheron, the canal boat is the Corinthian house, the roof will be where the chorus sits,” Porthos says. “[‘Sacred rivers flow uphill; justice and all things are reversed’](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=medea%20euripides&oq=medea%20e&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j69i57j0l4.2686j0j7). Tragic enough for you, Athos?”

 

“Sylvie shall be Medea,” Athos murmurs, clearly distracted.

 

“I’ll be the Chorus,” Constance says.

 

They carry on casting themselves. Porthos lets them at it, busy himself, thinking about translations and previous productions and what to do about getting them an audience.

 

“Oxford,” he says, interrupting. “That’s the place to do it. I’ll need internet, so you’ll have to give in and give us the super box thing you use when you’re working, Athos.”

 

“Super box thing. Hotspot booster?” Athos asks. “Fine, but if I end up spending all day in bed watching Star Trek, on your head be it.”

 

“I’ll be turning the boat into an office, I’ll be kicking you out, you’ll be fine,” Porthos says.

 

He doesn’t actually turn the boat into an office, or boot Athos out. First he walks to the nearest town with a bookshop. Aramis tags along with him, holding his hand and chattering on without minding that Porthos is barely listening. He buys an ice cream in the town, and waits outside shops while Porthos searches for his translation, and when Porthos comes out of Oxfam, book in hand, Aramis cheers.

 

“Do you want an ice cream to celebrate, my love?” Aramis asks, leaning into Porthos’s side, stroking his shoulder, and looking up at him with beautifully-put-on adoration.

 

“Bloody actors,” Porthos grumbles, flicking through his book.

 

“Oh come on, we haven’t had sex in ages and you LIKE being adored. It gets you going!”

 

“Who did you end up being, again? Creon?”

 

“Jason,” Aramis says. “Athos wanted to be Creon. We thought about having d’Art be the nurse.”

 

“He can be Aegeus. And the Messenger. You’re all going to have to be the chorus, unless we do something.”

 

“Connie’s the chorus. All on her own.”

 

“Mm. Okay, I can work with that. She can be Sylvie’s ‘conscience’ type thing.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re actually gonna do this for us,” Aramis says, stopping Porthos to stroke his cheek and kiss him. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re the ones doing the work.”

 

“Bull. We both know it’s you who’s going to be working. We’ll faff about, do our bit on stage, and argue with you. You’ll be finding us an audience, publicizing it, adapting the text, working out how the staging will go. It’s supposed to be a holiday. Athos and d’Art’s whims are not a good reason, if you’d rather not do this.”

 

“I want to. I love _Medea_ , as you know.”

 

“Greek drama, Early Modern, and Chekhov. I wish Charon were here, that would be awesome. Charon could play ferryman and ship the kids away down the river and only we would get the joke.”

 

“Unless people checked the programme and found his name. Now, come on, let’s walk back. We can read this as we go, you haven’t read to me in ages.”

 

“I will read it, doing voices and all, if you promise we’ll get sex soon.”

 

“Deal.”

 

“Yay.”

 

Porthos gets the wifi out of Athos, that evening, and sits down with his laptop. First of all he emails a few people he knows in Oxford, to look for a good date and time and help with publicity. Then he searches nearby for a nice cheap hotel.

 

“Ath, can we stay moored here for three more days?” Porthos asks, squinting at the numbers.

 

“Yes, I suppose,” Athos says.

 

“I’ll give you your lines,” Porthos says, “you can focus on that. Aramis, you owe me twenty quid.”

 

“I do? Why? Do I pay you for sex, these days?” Aramis asks, sitting on the sofa beside him and looking at the screen. “Oh. Right. Take it from my account, or I’ll give you cash tomorrow.”

 

Porthos grunts and takes it from Aramis’s bank account. They generally just pay for things for each other, but they agreed ages ago that accommodation they’d split, as well as costs like a car or long journey costs. It makes life easier to just stick to that no matter what.

 

“We should meander towards Oxford. We have three weeks, then we perform,” Porthos says. “I’ll type up a working script tomorrow, and email it to you guys. I’m not printing it, you can do it yourself if you want it hard copy. Does anyone mind if I watch Star Trek, now?”

 

“Can’t we watch something fun?” Aramis complains, curling up against Porthos and worming his hands up under Porthos’s t-shirt. “Something like… 24. Something with more explosions.”

 

Porthos puts 24 on. He’s quite uncomfortable, though. His binder’s making him ache, and what he really wants is to get it off and lie down. Everyone’s inside, and there are no separate rooms. Porthos can feel his breathing speed up. Aramis notices it, too, and moves the laptop off Porthos’s lap, wriggling so he’s blocking Porthos from the room, kissing him, hands roaming. He gets Porthos’s binder off with little struggle, distracting Porthos.

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says, when he’s back in his t-shirt, sans-binder, not entirely sure how Aramis accomplished that.

 

“You’re welcome, babe. Do you want to lie down? I’ll be pillow,” Aramis says, already drawing Porthos down to crunch himself onto the sofa.

 

It should be tight and uncomfortable, being jammed in there, but with Aramis stroking his hair and rubbing over his back and side, and the TV playing the familiar Jack Bauer, and Athos and Sylvie drinking in the galley, and Constance sitting on the floor watching with them, and d’Artagnan reading Medea aloud to himself in the stern, it all feels safe and comforting.

 

“I need a day to myself, tomorrow,” Aramis says, when everyone’s busy elsewhere. “Do you think you could go write in a cafe, and take me with you?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Porthos says.

 

“I’ll sit with you. You count as me being on my own. Oh crap, now I’m sad.”

 

“About what?” Porthos asks.

 

“Nothing. That’s how it works. At least I’m not numb.”

 

“Mm. Maybe we should just fork out, and get that room tomorrow night, as well as the one after,” Porthos says.

 

“Okay. I’ll cover it. TV pays better than theatre. Hopefully we’ll get renewed.”

 

“You’ll find out end of the week, right? Will it be a problem doing Medea?”

 

“No, I’m on holiday, I’m taking a break. I should hear by Thursday.”

 

Porthos sits up and redoes their booking, using Aramis’s card. He still goes to work in a cafe, the next day, and Aramis sits, drinking coffee, sketching, reading. Porthos half watches, keeping an eye on Aramis’s body language. He seems alright, but there is a tiredness to him, and he sometimes sits, for long periods, doing nothing. Not even sipping his coffee. Porthos puts an audiobook on and gives Aramis the headphones, and Aramis drifts, eyes glazing.

 

“I’m done, sweetheart,” Porthos says, rubbing Aramis’s shoulder.

 

It’s nearly two pm. Porthos has cadged together a working script and sent it off, along with some character notes and a few of his ideas about staging. Aramis looks up at him, blinking, and then nods, slow and thick. Porthos packs his stuff away and waits for Aramis to get himself together and get up. He gives a tip on his way out, even though this is just a Costa. The staff have been nice and welcoming, and left him to work. It’s not like he can’t afford a couple of quid.

 

“Are we walking to the hotel?” Aramis asks.

 

“We could call a taxi. It’s probably a half hour walk.”

 

Aramis shakes his head, linking their hands. He sets an easy pace, looking around. Porthos makes comments about the things they pass, pointing out a flower he likes, the sheep, the baby cow. Aramis said once that noticing things around him helped him, helped stay in the present and not go numb or float off. Porthos sings, as well, when Aramis starts to look sleepy. Aramis laughs, but then apologises and joins in.They fall into bed, when they get to their room, neither caring that it’s all of three pm. Aramis has brightened up during the walk, and he’s very enthusiastic about baring Porthos’s body, finding his skin, pressing kisses all over him. Porthos is fine with it for a while, then he suggests a shower, and then he’d much prefer to focus on Aramis’s nakedness than his own.

 

“Alright?” Aramis asks.

 

“Body doesn’t feel right, give it a bit.”

 

“How about you wear a binder? And do tell me you brought that lovely strap on. Those harness lines make you look so hot and competent and like an assassin or something.”

 

Porthos laughs, but lets Aramis dress him up, hands running over his thighs, his belly, over his chest when he’s bound.

 

“I love you,” Aramis says, astride Porthos’s lap.

 

Porthos grunts in agreement, hips shifting. Aramis is lithe and naked and glorious, and Porthos doesn’t want to hear about sentiment right now.

 

“Get on with it. Ride me,” Porthos demands.

 

Aramis does as he’s told.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Jason doesn’t know that his children are ever in any kind of danger, from himself or from his new marriage and definitely not from Medea. He’s always talking and thinking politics. For her it’s personal and selfish, but it is also that she feels her children are already lost, already so unsafe that they may as well be dead. She knows how far she’d go and what she’d do, and assumes it of others. She thinks her children are in danger of dying the kind of torturous deaths she inflicts on Creon and the princess. Her family is destroyed, in her eyes, and without family, without a man, the children will have no place. For her it isn’t politics, it’s vengeance, fear, family, self.”

 

Sylvie nods along with Porthos. He’s said most of it before, and it’s in her notes. She’s not sure what she’s doing wrong. He’s looking at Aramis, though, waiting for a penny to drop. 

 

“Aramis! There’s a huge chasm between the two of you! You are having two different conversations, you need to show that. Stop being emotional about your children!” Porthos snaps, when Aramis just looks back. 

 

Aramis storms off, at that, ignoring Porthos yelling at him to come back. Porthos groans and jumps off the boat, going after him. Sylvie raises her eyebrows at Athos, who’s sunbathing on the roof. 

 

“Personal drama, nothing to do with the play,” Athos says. “You make a wonderful Medea. Very nuanced.”

 

“Thanks,” Sylvie says. “Will Porthos ever actually direct me, or will he always be at Aramis?”

 

“Don’t be rude,” Athos says, still languid, unengaged. “He’ll get to you once Aramis stops being so melodramatic. And he’s giving you notes, right? All that stuff about Medea.”

 

“Are we waiting for him, now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sylvie sighs. Constance and d’Artagnan have gone off somewhere together, and it’s just her and Athos. Which would be lovely, if Athos weren’t insistent on her being patient with her director. She climbs up onto the roof and lays herself down next to Athos, soaking up the sun-warmth of his side, pressing kisses to his neck and stubbly cheek and beard and lips. 

 

“Hello,” Athos says, smiling at her. “Tell him it’s annoying you, if you like.”

 

“You won’t push me off the boat if I criticise your darling Porthos?” Sylvie asks. “You all worship the ground under one another.”

 

“The only thing I worship is you,” Athos says. Then he frowns, and giggles. “That was way more romantic and awesome in my head.”

 

“It was very nice,” Sylvie assures, wrapping an arm around him, sighing. 

 

He’s so warm and his body is so nice and familiar, now, too. Strong, gentle with her, using that strength in her service, at her wish. As she wishes. 

 

“Porthos is returning,” Athos says. “Shall we tell him to bugger back off?”

 

Sylvie is tempted, but she sits up and climbs back off the roof. Porthos comes aboard looking irritable and hot. 

 

“Sorry,” he says. “Athos, come read Jason in. Let’s do this scene and see what we want from Medea.”

 

Without Aramis there to disrupt things, Sylvie finds Porthos much easier to work with. He’s a good director, taking her ideas on board, giving her clear instruction, talking through the character with her and implementing their ideas into his overall ‘vision’ for the piece. He’s cut the play to about an hour, and focused on the sympathetic elements of Medea’s character. He keeps toning down her performance, in the early scenes, forcing her to find different ways to show Medea’s emotion. In her physicality, her face, changing her tone with more subtlety than she’s usually called to do. 

 

“Will Aramis do it right?” Sylvie asks, two hours later when Porthos lets her relax. 

 

“Perhaps,” Porthos says, shrugging. “If not, we’ll just focus on how you can show what we need. Don’t worry about it, I’ve worked with difficult actors plenty. I’ll work it out.”

 

“Have you worked with Aramis much?” Sylvie asks. 

 

“No, not much,” Porthos says. “We decided it would be easier not. I’ve directed him a couple of times, and he’s been in two of the things I’ve written. I’ve worked much more with Athos. He’s great to work with. He even shows up and manages to be competent when he’s drunk.”

 

“‘He’ is sat right here,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos is teasing him, Sylvie thinks. She looks at Athos, wondering about them, about her and him and work. She’s not worked with him, since Malfi. She’d quite like to act with him, but it is her work and as much as she loves it, she is there to do a job and is a professional. It might be strange, being that, and being the self she is with Athos. With Constance it’s easy. Sylvie’s not sure why. She’s much more comfortable, perhaps, with Constance's brand of professionalism than Athos’s. Athos’s, she’s seen, relies to a certain extent on his posh accent and manner, covering up the gaps in reliability made by alcohol and depression. Porthos is teasing, but there’s something there that makes Sylvie wonder if Athos has actually shown up for rehearsals gently sozzled. She wouldn’t put it past him, especially working with Porthos, who he knows and is close to and who clearly cuts him some slack. Porthos is very clearly gentle and accomodating with his actors, taking it on himself to do the extra work to make their lives easier. As Sylvie considers all this, Porthos gives Athos a one armed hug, then vaults off the boat. He turns, grinning. 

 

“I may be quite some time, but put a sock on the door, would you?” Porthos says, before waving and going off. 

 

“d’Artagnan and Constance went to town, they’ll be a while, too,” Athos murmurs, shuffling along until he’s pressed close to her, breath hot on her neck. “Want to nap together?”

 

“Athos! Don’t get me all worked up and then only offer naps!” Sylvie says, laughing. 

 

“Oh. You want to have sex. Okay, that would be nice, too.”

 

Sylvie laughs at him again, bundling him inside. They don’t end up having sex. They end up talking, lying in bed. He plays with her hair, runs his hands over her before settling to rubbing over her stomach. He tells her about his childhood, hand rising to sketch patterns in the air, voice light and easy. She tells him about her father, in return. About his books and his brilliance, his revolts and his calms. 

 

“He’s a surgeon, probably the best in the country. He can’t be bothered with games and politics of hospitals, though, and gets himself into trouble going on marches and demonstrating and writing polemic and trying to overturn the structure of medicine. He wants to entirely change the way things are taught, to include women and trans people’s bodies and differences, to not take white cis neurotypical able bodied men as the standard. Inclusivity in medicine.  Médecine sans Entrave, Medicine without Impediment, his group is called.”

 

Athos’s breath catches, and to Sylvie’s surprise, when she turns to look, he has tears on his cheek. He shakes his head, burying his face against her shoulder. She waits, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, for whatever sadness this is to pass. 

 

“I’ve just dealt with a lot of fuckery from doctors, when transitioning. You should hear some of Porthos’s stories. I’m fine,” Athos says, snuffling. 

 

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be, it’s life, we’re both happy now.”

 

They’re quiet for a while, then start talking about the play, and family in that. Athos hasn’t read much Euripedes, so Sylvie tells him about the plays she’s read. He quotes Ancient Greek at her for a bit, then Latin, then dozes off. The next morning, he refuses to get up, even though they’re due to move on, and he needs to steer the boat. Sylvie does her best, but he just lies there, buried in blankets despite the heat.

 

“Athos, I can’t get through the tunnel and lock that’s coming up,” Porthos says, from the doorway. “d’Art and Aramis certainly can’t, and Constance has never had a go steering. Please, just through the tunnel and the lock.”

 

“Go away,” Athos says. 

 

“Athos de la Fere, don’t be a spoilt child,” Sylvie snaps. “Do not use your depression as an excuse for this, either. Get up, do this, and then come back to bed. It’s not asking much of you, and you know how to function when you feel like shit, so get on and do it.”

 

“I’m on holiday. Don’t have to function,” Athos grumbles, but he drags himself out of bed.

 

He bumps them, through the tunnel, and Sylvie’s pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose. Aramis sighs at him, suggesting the same thing. 

 

“Is he often like this?” Sylvie asks Aramis quietly, inside, while Porthos and Constance work the lock.

 

“What? Belligerent, childish, grumpy? He has his moments,” Aramis says. “He loses coherence, emotionally. Like he has no control over his feelings, and he can’t understand them. He’ll get his head straight soon enough. If you could find it in you to be patient with him, that would be nice.”

 

“I’m not a particularly patient person, but I love him. We’ll work it out,” Sylvie says, wondering who’ll answer Athos’s questions about her. Who’ll tell Athos to be patient with her? Constance, perhaps. 

 

Athos comes through, then, diving back into bed and grumbling at her for getting him out. Aramis leaves them to it. Sylvie sits on the bed, then gets up and gets her tablet out. She’ll do some work, and ignore Athos sulking. That seems a good way to go. She’s halfway through the writing she needs to get done when Athos shifts his grumpy self into her lap. 

 

“Better?” She asks. 

 

“No. What are you doing?”

 

“Writing a play about education,” Sylvie says. 

 

“Oh? I haven’t seen any of your plays? I didn’t know you write.”

 

“I’ve had a few performed, but I’m not particularly successful. My father’s bugbear is medicine, mine is education. This play is about being a refugee child in mainstream education, the language barriers and the small aggressions.”

 

“Sounds horribly depressing.”

 

“Well fuck you very much. I am a refugee child. It’s my work. I teach with the refugee centre at home, I work in schools to help with barriers to learning, I set up a charity that advocates for child refugees’ rights. It’s important to me.”

 

“Porthos will put it on for you, if you ask nicely,” Athos says. 

 

“You’re being glib, and insulting,” Sylvie says. 

 

“He will put it on! He likes things about issues!”

 

“Sylvie, could you come up and help me with something?” 

 

Sylvie looks up, seething, and sees Porthos. She extracts herself from Athos, tucks her tablet under her arm and makes to push past Porthos. 

 

“Did he upset you?” Porthos asks. 

 

“It’s between me and him,” Sylvie says. 

 

“Yeah, guess so. Fuck, he always fucks everything up.”

 

“He hasn’t,” Sylvie says. “Leave it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Porthos, it turns out, doesn’t want her help after all. She waits for him to tie up by a lock, then relocates herself to the bows, where Constance is sitting. 

 

“Alright?” Constance asks. 

 

“Yes, fine. Athos is annoying. And they’re all annoying about Athos.”

 

“I believe it. What are you writing? Still about the school?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can I read, when you’re done with the section? I really liked the start.”

 

“Yes, if you like.”

 

Constance sees her irritation on the subject and changes it. She points out a swan, and then a duck, and then a goose, and then she laughs, moving so she can sit very very close to Sylvie. 

 

“Do my hair? We can be proper girly,” Constance says, grinning. 

 

Sylvie snorts, but indulges her. She makes Constance a crown of plaits, until all her long, thick hair is piled up on top of her head. Bits keep on coming out, but that looks nice, so Sylvie leaves it be. 

 

“You look beautiful,” Sylvie says, thumb stroking Constance’s cheek. 

 

“Did you ask Athos?” Constance asks eagerly, leaning into the touch. 

 

“Not yet. I hadn’t thought to, yet. How’s your chorus coming? I like my idea of me and you being friends, of making something out of our interaction.”

 

“Mm, me too. I like acting with you, you’re brilliant. And lovely.”

 

Sylvie grins, and goes to curl up with Athos. She strokes his hair and listens to his grumbling and is terribly sympathetic. She thanks him for the suggestion of asking Porthos about her play, and apologises for being annoying. Then, when he’s soft and pliant and in a better mood, she asks. 

 

“Constance is beautiful, isn’t she?” Sylvie begins. 

 

“I suppose so. d’Artagnan’s certainly enamoured.”

 

“Do you have any thoughts on polyamoury?”

 

Athos is quiet for a while. The silence takes on a more and more hurt quality, and Sylvie inwardly sighs. 

 

“You played me. Just then,” Athos says. “All those nice things you said, being nice to me, just to ask this of me.”

 

“No. I compromised my ideals in order to make you feel better, because I wanted you to be less contrary, sure, but I didn’t ‘play’ you.”

 

“Feels that way. I suppose I’m okay with it, if you want to fuck her or whatever.”

 

“That isn’t at all what I want. I want to talk to you about what kind of relationship we want, me and you. Whether that will include other people or not, to what extent, what sort of rules we want. It’s not about her and me, it’s about you and me. Us. Our relationship. I brought Connie up because I like her, and I’m at a point where I don’t know how far to go, which way to go with her, whether to take a step back, what my boundaries should be.”

 

“If I say no, you might go to her instead of me.”

 

“No, if you say no then we’ll have a conversation about what you do want. We’ll discuss where we’re both willing to compromise, what’s important. Athos, you’re thirty years old and I’m teaching you how to negotiate a relationship.”

 

“My last relationship sort of combusted. I’m not good at this. I haven’t had much practise. And, I’m actually thirty three.”

 

“You do it with the others. With Porthos, Aramis, d’Art. You tell them your boundaries, what you need from them, and listen to what they need from you.”

 

“They’re different. They’re not… you make me better, and happier, and I love you. I don’t want it to be like with them. I see your point, though. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with other people being involved in our relationship, though.”

 

“Is it alright that I like her?”

 

“Maybe,” Athos says, burying himself in his pillows. “I don’t know. It feels like a sad thing, but everything’s a sad thing today.”

 

“Well here’s a happy thing. There are a lot of people I like, have liked, will like. But I made a commitment to you, didn’t I? I chose you, out of all those people I like, out of everyone. I didn’t start a relationship with Constance, did I? Just you,” Sylvie says, wriggling closer to him, pressing their noses together. He smiles a little.

 

“You did make a commitment to me. I remember.”

 

_ It’s raining, and she hasn’t got any work at the moment, and Athos’s play has been good but now she’s just waiting for him. In the rain. She’s been out here for twenty minutes. She can’t get hold of him, and she can’t get into the building, and he’s not home. It’s the second time he’s invited her back to the flat he’s rented, after she’s come to see his play, and the second time he’s been late. She’s about to give up and leave, when he appears on the corner at a dead sprint. He comes splashing, water all around him. She laughs, her heart lifting at the sight of him, soaked to the skin, panting.  _

 

_ “Sorry, I’m so sorry. My director was cross and had loads of notes and I couldn’t get away, and then he wanted me to go over that speech yet again, and you’re wet. You’re wet and I’m keeping you in the street,” Athos says, turning and fumbling to unlock the door. “Fuck, fuck, I can never get this… hang on… there. Come in. I have towels. I even have clean towels.” _

 

_ He has thick, warm, clean towels, and hot soup, and he lends her sweats and a jumper. Bundled up in his clothes, curled in one of his chairs, she feels domestic and warm and her frustration melts away. Athos is puttering around in the kitchen, humming to himself. He comes in with hot chocolate, walking carefully. He sets hers on the table at her side. She tuts and takes his mug, too, setting that with hers, pulling him gently to kneel before her, bending to kiss him, holding his face.  _

 

_ “Your dear, wet, silly face,” She murmurs, laughing, kissing his nose.  _

 

_ “Silly?” Athos asks, brow crinkling up.  _

 

_ “Yes. Thank you for all this. Don’t leave me waiting in the rain again. You’re forgiven. You’re very lovely, even with this wet straggly hair and those ratty pyjama trousers.” _

 

_ “They’re soft,” Athos says.  _

 

_ “I like you an awful lot, Athos.” _

 

_ Athos ducks his head, and gets to his feet, withdrawing with his hot chocolate. It takes her twenty minutes to get out of him that he doesn’t think relationships work and doesn’t think anything works and is generally a cynical bugger.  _

 

_ “We are already in a relationship,” Sylvie points out. “I come to see your plays, you see mine when I get them, you tuned in to Midsummer Murders, and watched my old Poirot. We have dinner, sleep together.” _

 

_ “It’s just a thing,” Athos says.  _

 

_ “No it isn’t. I like you, and you like me. You’re all soft and warm and you care about me, about things. You’re gentle and kind. I am happy to commit myself to you.” _

 

_ “Commit,” Athos scoffs.  _

 

_ “Yes. Commit. I will work at making our relationship good, at understanding you, at being there for you. You will do the same for me. We will make something, build something. I commit to doing that. You’re wonderful, I want you in my life. If that means waiting in the rain once in awhile, I reserve the right to shout at you about it at some point, but fine.” _

 

_ “You make me sound better than I am.” _

 

_ “No I don’t. I know perfectly well that you drink too much, that you’re a grouchy bugger, that you are irritating and try too hard to be ‘moral’ and fuck up and that you leave me waiting in the rain. I know that you care too much about some things and not enough about others, that you’re stupidly loyal to your friends, to the point of compromising this, us. I know you have plenty of flaws. There are things about you I don’t like. I’m not asking you to change, though. Just be open to me, and my flaws, and accepting.” _

 

_ “You’re different to most people,” Athos murmurs, meeting her eyes. “Commitment?” _

 

_ “Yes. To you, to this.” _

 

_ “Then I will commit to you, also. If this is what you want. It is… I confess that I have thought of it. Of you in my clothes, in my home, of sharing these things with you.” _

 

“I don’t mind you liking Constance,” Athos says. “I don’t mind you being close. I want to be monogamous, though. It’s important to me.”

 

Sylvie sighs. She had hoped he’d be open to it. She considers, wondering if she can do that. Just him, for ever and ever. Never to kiss Constance, to never embark on a new relationship, never fall in love. She thinks about missed opportunities, missed connections. Then she looks at him, looking up at her, his dear silly face. She thinks of him, of a life she might have with him. 

 

“Alright,” she says. “Can we talk about this again in about a month?”

 

“Yes, okay. I’ll keep thinking about it.”

 

“Don’t make it a thing you worry about, though. I still love your silly face, and all of you, all the way through. I want this with you. What you want is important to me.”

 

“What you want is important too, though. So I’ll keep on thinking about it.”

  
Sylvie spends the rest of the day in bed with him, reading bits of her play, writing, using him as a thesaurus, cuddling with him. He’s so soft and quiet and all hers, for the moment. All his vulnerabilities and strengths, all of him. 


	6. Chapter 6

[“What mortals need is some other way to get our children. We ought to have no female sex and then men would be rid of all their troubles.”](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=medea+euripides&oq=medea+euripides&gs_l=serp.3..0l10.6373.8924.0.9206.12.6.1.5.6.0.139.613.4j2.6.0....0...1c.1.64.serp..0.12.655...0i67k1j0i10k1.sDcX0MObBIQ)

 

“You’re not supposed to be that sad about it,” Sylvie says.

 

“It’s fine, carry on,” Porthos says, eyes on the script. He can’t iron away all of Aramis’s sadness about children, it’s impossible. Porthos frowns. “Could we give Jason a lover? Aegeus. Who he also betrayed, by marrying. But he cannot marry Aegeus because he needs children and heirs?”

 

“That would turn him sympathetic,” Sylvie says. “Or more sympathetic.”

 

“Well, he’s already sympathetic, seeing as Medea murders his children, his wife, and his father in law. And his betraying another person… well, his choice is definitely a choice, then, isn’t it? His priorities are clearly on display. Politics, power. Not love, not his wife, not his lover. Himself.”

 

Sylvie nods. Porthos makes a mark on the script, flicking through to Aegeus’s entrance, and quickly scribbles a makeshift line.

 

“As I told you, I wanted to save you and have children, royal princes, with the same blood as my sons. That way my house has more security,” Aramis says, coming out of his sadness, back to logic and reason and unfeeling. Porthos nods.

 

“May I never want a merely prosperous life, accepting pain or great wealth at the expense of happiness here in my heart,” Sylvie spits, hand over her heart, turning from Aramis to Constance, then back to Aramis.

 

“I like the Johnston translation of this bit,” Porthos tells Aramis, when they’re done with the scene. They’re sat on the grass, Porthos going over the script to add in Aegeus as Jason’s lover. “He makes it so clear that it’s an argument that’s still pertinent. Woman as emotional, man as logical. The whole ‘I won’t talk to you about this until you’re willing to be reasonable’ and ‘your emotional response is silly of course I didn’t tell you earlier or you’d have been silly earlier’, Jason’s dismissal of Medea, it’s familiar, isn’t it?”

 

“Very nice,” Aramis says, sprawled at Porthos’s side.

 

He’s holding Porthos’s shorts, worrying the fabric between his fingers. Porthos has stripped to his binder and his shorts, the heat and closeness making anything else uncomfortable while he ran about directing and setting things up.

 

“We’ll have children, one day,” Porthos murmurs, turning his attention to Aramis, dipping to kiss him. “I promise you. When one of us has a steady income and we can afford to stay in one place, maybe they’ll reconsider our application to adopt.”

 

“It’s never going to happen.”

 

“It will. If you want it this badly, it will happen. There are still things we can do. Changing careers, for example. Or you could apply for that theatre company, they really liked your work on my last play. That would at least be steady.”

 

“I want to do television.”

 

“I know. I just mean that there are options, that it’s not the end of the line or the end of the day. Children are in our future.”

 

“You’re so certain. How are you so certain?”

 

Porthos sighs, going back to the script. He doesn’t have any answers for Aramis, he never has. He doesn’t ache for it the way Aramis does. He wants to be a father and he wants a family, with Aramis, and he trusts that one day it will happen for him. For Aramis it’s very different.

 

“I still want children with you,” Porthos says. “We can make it more of a priority, if it’s hurting you. Is there anything you want, right now?”

 

“No,” Aramis says. “Carry on with that, I’m alright.”

 

Porthos turns to give him another kiss, then goes back to his script. He’s cut most the lines he thought would be the more painful ones, but Aramis does find a way to read into it and now he’s made it a central part of Jason. Maybe it will be cathartic. It will certainly turn the play into something else. Aramis is very intense, as Jason. Sylvie is a willful, skilled, determined Medea, playing up the aspect of the children being part of the agreement between her and Jason and not something she deeply wanted for herself.

 

“It’s like they’re opposite,” Porthos murmurs, rubbing Aramis’s chest, his shoulder. “Medea’s political and logical about her children, and emotional about the breakup, and Jason is emotional about the children and political and logical about the breakup. Their priorities are very different. I bet Sylvie could make something of that and still bring it across that Medea loves her children.”

 

“She’s really good,” Aramis says.

 

“Yeah. Connie says she’s a good writer, too. She won’t show me anything, apparently Athos suggested she show me and now she won’t. On principle or something.”

 

“I’ve read a few things, a while ago she showed me some. She is good, she’s got a way with words. Her stuff used to be very polemical, but I think that’s probably evened out.”

 

Porthos grunts, going back to his script, sending the revised version to everyone. He attaches notes for d’Artagnan and Aramis, on how they can play it. When he looks up again, Constance is coming over. She flops down in the grass beside him.

 

“You’re not sad too, are you?” Porthos asks, closing down his document and locking the screen.

 

“No, I got bored of Athos and d’Art debating politics,” Constance says. “They set Sylvie off, and I decided to leave them to get eaten. She’s amazing. She has so many thoughts and feelings, and her heart is so big and willing. You guys have got to be really good to her, okay? Every one of you. No protecting Athos if it means hurting her, okay? He’s not coming first. She’s too good.”

 

Porthos nods, still focused on the script. Aramis gets up and goes for a solitary walk, muttering something about finding a church. Porthos usually ignores his religious leanings. His faith is a gentle part of him, but an annoying one. He’s so fervent sometimes, about it all. Porthos stays with Constance, sprawling in the grass with her.

 

*

 

“You hard and wretched woman,

just like stone or iron—

to kill your children,                                                                           

ones you bore yourself,                                                         

sealing their fate with your own hands.

Of all women that ever lived before

I know of one, of only one,

who laid hands on her dear children—

and that was Ino,

driven to madness by the gods!”

 

Constance shouts it, without actually shouting until the last. She jumps from the barge and holds Sylvie’s head, and they rock, turning, twisting.

 

“That sad lady leapt into the sea,” Constance says, pulling Sylvie towards the canal, the water. “But what horror remains after what happened here?”

 

She lets Sylvie go and turns away, refusing to speak. Sylvie wraps herself around Constance from behind, but Constance stands still and silent. They’re back to back when Aramis gets back up from the stern, stepping to the bank and coming over.

 

Constance gives Aramis the news of Jason’s murdered children, Aramis pushes between them, parting them, and rattles the hatch on the boat. He kneels for the last exchange with Medea, arms out, head back. Porthos sighs with the ending, Constance’s last speech sombre and careful and from the top of the boat again, Aramis standing at the bows, Sylvie at the stern, each facing away from the other.

 

“Well, that’ll be great,” Porthos says. “Constance, just the one shout, yeah?” Porthos says. Constance nods. “Aramis, when you push between them, try to just… less with the waving arms. And try to not hurry over for the scene. You have no idea what’s happened yet.”

 

Porthos makes a few notes on the script as he talks, then gets to his feet, stretching. They’ve just done a run through of the whole thing. It’s coming together, he feels. He likes what they’re doing, though he’s not sure about some of the staging. He has a few question marks against some of his ideas.

 

“Let’s go through again tomorrow. For now, d’Artagnan and Aramis? Can we do the short bit from the start again?” Porthos says, sitting himself down again to watch Aramis and d’Artagnan play at being lovers.

 

“I’m going to make dinner,” Athos says. “We need to get more wine, tomorrow. We’ll be close to a good wine shop. I timed it all perfectly.”

 

“I don’t think I want to drink anymore wine ever,” Constance says.

 

She and Athos bicker quietly as Aramis and d’Artagnan go over their scene, Porthos stopping and starting them to get the movement right, to make the timing right. When the day finally gets done, Aramis is tired. Exhausted, even. Porthos claims the double bed, pulls it out across the cabin, and lies on his back, allowing Aramis to curl up against him.

 

“Just achy,” Aramis whispers. “Inside. Like I creak.”

 

“I want to read to you. Yes?” Porthos says. Aramis nods, so Porthos finds Wyrd Sisters, the Discworld book he’s currently on, and goes to the start. “It might make you laugh. If you laugh I won’t think you’re magically better.”

 

“Christ, Porthos, you’re so stupidly good. You’re just so good.”

 

[“‘The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills.](http://discworld.wikia.com/wiki/Wyrd_Sisters)

 

“‘The night was black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which gods moved men as though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel's eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: 'When shall we three meet again?'.

 

“‘There was a pause.

 

“‘Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: 'Well, I can do next Tuesday'.’”

 

Aramis giggles, and Porthos congratulates himself on his voices and dramatization of it. He snuggles down, wrapping an arm around Aramis, so his mouth is close to Aramis’s ear, and continues. It’s comforting for him, too, to have Aramis this close. Not just in a physical sense. Aramis has a habit of mentally wandering off, and having him present and close and listening, holding Porthos’s arm, whispering to him about what they’re reading, is like a balm.

 

He’s dozing, the tablet he was reading from fallen at Aramis’s back, when d’Artagnan comes and plonks himself down on the bed. It doesn’t disturb Aramis, who truly wakes for nothing, but it shakes Porthos back to the surface. He sighs, wondering who wants advice or help or support from him this time.

 

“Mm?” he says.

 

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan says. Porthos opens his eyes, startled, and stares at d’Artagnan, mouth open. d’Artagnan grins, looking far too pleased with himself. “Only, it’s about seven pm and you’re already halfway asleep, and we’ve roped you into working on holiday, and you work far too hard.”

 

“I’m fine,” Porthos says. “A little tired, that’s all. Aramis wanted to sleep. Well, to snuggle, really.”

 

“Okay. Do you want some dinner?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Great. I’ll leave you to your snuggling.”

 

Porthos watches him get up, and then calls him back. d’Artagnan smiles widely at him.

 

“Thanks, is all,” Porthos says.

 

“Sure,” d’Artagan says, and wanders off.

 

Porthos presses his face into Aramis’s hair, wriggling closer, holding him a little tighter.

 

“He’s a good one, ‘mis. Let’s keep him forever,” Porthos mumbles, letting himself sink back.

 

He wakes to Athos standing over him, staring at him, unblinking. It’s more than a little disconcerting, but Porthos rolls with it. Aramis is gone, which means it’s probably morning, and Athos is in his pyjamas, which means it’s either early, or late and Athos is hungover. Porthos squints at his watch, and sees it’s the former. He sits up and waits for Athos to spit out whatever it is that has him hovering like a six year old on Christmas morning. Or after a nightmare might be more accurate.

 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos asks. “Is Aramis okay?”

 

“He’s fine. No one ended up in the canal. They’ve all gone to the pub down the towpath, looking for a fry up,” Athos says. “I don’t want to be Creon. I’m about to get dressed and join them, I thought I’d wake you. Aramis said to tell you something soppy I can’t remember the exact words but he used both darling and love, so. Now, I’m going to go shower.”

 

Athos turns on his heel and starts to make his escape. Porthos gets a firm grip on his pyjama top and then sets about waking up more. Athos isn’t getting away, unless he gets out of his clothes which would be dramatic even for him, so Porthos takes his time yawning and stretching and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

 

“You don’t have to be Creon,” Porthos says. “We can cut him, add more for someone else. Works fine for me.”

 

“Good. Breakfast?”

 

“Stop trying to stop me talking about it.”

 

“You can talk about it all you like, I have nothing to say on the matter.”

 

“Fuck’s sake, you’re a nightmare. Come on, lie down and cuddle with me while I wake up. Aramis has buggered off and I want morning snuggles,” Porthos says.

 

Athos obliges, with a little grumbling. Porthos just grumbles wordlessly back. He wants cuddles, he’s a cuddly person, he’s going to have cuddles. He wraps himself tightly around Athos and sighs in contentment.

 

“Now you have your human teddy bear, what am I meant to do?” Athos asks.

 

“Tell me stuff,” Porthos mumbles. “Your hair smells nice. You already showered. Why did you get back into your jammies?”

 

“Quick escape route,” Athos says, with a sigh. “Good excuse – time for my morning shower. I just don’t want to do anything, it feels stressful, trying to learn the lines. Everyone else is having fun with it, but I don’t seem to know how to do that. How does one go about having fun?”

 

“If one is you? Mostly you drink wine, currently. And see Sylvie. She makes you more playful. Just find moments you enjoy, that’s fine. If acting isn’t one right now, you can sit with me and order people around.”

 

“I like the sound of that. Can we go for breakfast, now?”

 

“I do actually need to shower. Oh, we’ve not got a shower on the side, this time, do we? Showerless moorings. I’ll have to squish myself into the little box. Sigh, Athos. Long, terrible sigh.”

 

Athos giggles, and Porthos ticks his ‘cheer Athos up’ box, and heaves himself out of bed. They find the others sat in a pub garden, eating waffles, fruit, and scones, a large pot of tea on the table with them. Athos snorts and goes to get himself coffee, which gets Aramis’s attention. It’s like he hasn’t seen Porthos in weeks. He bellows with joy and leaps up, jumping into Porthos’s arms, legs around his hips, kissing whatever skin he can reach.

 

“That’s a nice good morning,” Porthos says. “Very gratifying to see my company was missed.”

 

“It was! You have no idea how lonely I’ve been, waiting for you,” Aramis says, putting his feet back on the ground and holding Porthos’s face, kissing him properly. “I thought you might like the lie in, though, so I steeled myself and did my best without you.”

 

“Melodramatic kitten,” Porthos says, playing with Aramis’s hair. “I like it though. You should say hello like that every time.”

 

“Perhaps. Come and eat things, we have loads. They’re bringing us more waffles, you’re right on time. I got you some of that cloudy apple juice you like, and I’ve saved you an orange and some mango. They have great food here, and they have rooms to rent, we should come on holiday one time. There’s a river close, apparently, and a castle. Plenty to do.”

 

Aramis keeps on talking and Porthos listens. Or he half listens, anyway, absently, more focussed on the food in front of him than Aramis. He checks up on Athos, but Athos is entwined with Sylvie, whispering nothings to her, and looks perfectly content and happy. He catches Porthos looking and smiles a sunny smile. Porthos looks over to d’Artagnan, next, but he too looks happy, debating something with Constance. She’s laughing at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind that a bit.

 

“Are you listening to me?” Aramis asks.

 

“Sure,” Porthos says. “What were you talking about?”

 

“If you’d been listening, you’d know.”

 

“And then you wouldn’t have the great joy of repeating yourself. You love repeating yourself. Go on.”

 

Aramis does go on, grinning, happy with the sound of his own voice. That’s all his friends happy, Porthos thinks. He glances at Sylvie, and sees her smile which is all he can tell from her yet. Constance he knows better, but he still can’t tell if she’s actually happy. She seems to be having fun berating d’Artagnan for being young and uneducated in feminisms and womanly things, and she’s roping Sylvie in. It makes Athos pout, her attention drawn away, but only for a moment. Then he looks on as she decimates d’Artagnan, beaming at her.

 

“Porthos? You alright, babe? I know I babble on, but you usually at least pretend to listen.”

 

Porthos shakes himself. He remembers searching through feminist texts and criticisms and forums and debates, bel hooks and Maya Angelou, Womanism. Trying to locate himself, trying to work out why he never felt like he was a very good feminist no matter what he did, that he wasn’t standing up for women enough, wasn’t talking enough, wasn’t being silent enough. He never understood women. All those lists of things women think and do and experience, it had all felt like more of the same outside things. More expectations that he hadn’t lived up to.

 

And then he’d found the word transgender. He had felt more himself, then. But letting go of being a woman, of being part of that feminist movement, of what he’d tried centering himself on had been hard. He’d spent years locating power in his femininity, and then he’d discovered that he had to let it all go. Not be that afterall. It took him a long, long time to embrace the more feminine parts of himself again, to be able to without it making him deeply unhappy.

 

“Babe, you’re crying. Porthos.”

 

“I’m happy,” Porthos whispers. “You make me happy.”

 

“Oh good, because from here it looks like you’re sad.”

 

Aramis pulls Porthos close, then, wrapping his arms around Porthos’s head, cradling him close and hiding him. Porthos sighs, leaning into it. Aramis had changed things for him. Prancing around in heels and dresses, so comfortable in himself, with his masculinity and his femininity. Dressing up however he liked for nights out, for interviews. Letting everyone see his gentleness, his softness, crying openly. Things associated with femininity, with weakness.

 

“We should allow Medea more softness,” Porthos murmurs. “Now we’re cutting Creon, we can add some things. Give her more femininity. If Sylvie approves.”

 

“Alright, whatever you like. Are you alright? Porthos, are you okay? What happened?” Aramis asks, pulling back, thumbing the tears away. There aren’t many of them, it was dramatic of him to call a few tears crying.

 

“I’m alright. Maybe we could walk back?” Porthos says. “Or just walk. Me and you, eh?”

 

“Yes, whatever you want.”

 

They walk slowly, meandering along the towpath. When they reach a stile into a field they climb over and wander away from the canal. Aramis doesn’t chatter, he just walks, holding Porthos’s arm.

 

“I love you,” Porthos says, about half an hour away from the boat. “You’re good to me.”

 

“Mm. What happened, darling? You can call me dramatic as much as you like, but you were upset back there. Or at the least more emotional than you often are.”

 

“I guess it was a sort of flashback, in a way. Constance was talking about feminisms, and it threw me back. It just threw me. That word made me unhappy. Feminisms, female, femininity. All those things I tried so hard to embrace, and then to deny, and my relationship with all of it is just a bit fraught.”

 

“Fraught. That’s a dramatic word. But you’re okay?”

 

“Yes, for the hundredth time, I’m okay. I’ve been mostly thinking about Medea, while we walked. If I make her softer, does that associate femininity with instability and murder? With death?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Spoken like a true man.”

 

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t been sucked into Tumblr madness.”

 

“Spoken like an arse. Shut up. I want it to be a feminist thing. I’ll ask Sylvie, and Constance, they’ll know. They’ll have ideas. Shall we make Jason and Aegeus’s relationship Grecian? We could, d’Art can pass for very young. Fuck, he is very young. He’s twenty four! Did you know that?”

 

“Nope. I thought he was younger,” Aramis says.

 

“[Lord](https://www.google.co.uk/search?espv=2&q=midsummer+night%27s+dream&oq=midsum&gs_l=serp.3.1.0i67k1l3j0j0i67k1l2j0j0i10k1j0i67k1j0.4992.6259.0.7580.6.6.0.0.0.0.166.519.0j4.4.0....0...1c.1.64.serp..2.4.515...0i131k1.11qVOVroCG8)[, what fools these mortals be,](https://www.google.co.uk/search?espv=2&q=midsummer+night%27s+dream&oq=midsum&gs_l=serp.3.1.0i67k1l3j0j0i67k1l2j0j0i10k1j0i67k1j0.4992.6259.0.7580.6.6.0.0.0.0.166.519.0j4.4.0....0...1c.1.64.serp..2.4.515...0i131k1.11qVOVroCG8)” Porthos says, ignoring Aramis. “So many different things to think about and write about, when it comes to love. All the different pageants we could perform. Grecian, then, or enough so that it can be read either way. We won’t make too much of their love affair, I think. Focus on Medea, and her friendship with the chorus.”

 

“As you like it,” Aramis says.

 

“I have spent my morning making much ado about nothing, and you have walked at my side measure for measure. Your love’s labours won’t be lost, all’s well that ends well, for you. [I will live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=much%20ado%20about%20nothing&oq=much%20ado%20about%20nothing&aqs=chrome.0.0l6.2453j0j9),” Porthos says, grinning.

 

“[Your traveled, generous thighs](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/twenty-one-love-poems-floating-poem-unnumbered)

[ between which my whole face has come and come— ](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/twenty-one-love-poems-floating-poem-unnumbered)

[ the innocence and wisdom of the places my tongue has found ](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/twenty-one-love-poems-floating-poem-unnumbered)

[                                                                                          there— ](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/twenty-one-love-poems-floating-poem-unnumbered)

[ the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth—” ](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/twenty-one-love-poems-floating-poem-unnumbered) Aramis croons, into Porthos’s ear, lips soft there, breath hot.

 

 

[ “Lady, I will touch you with my mind. ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=xvii+e+e+cummings&hl=en&source=lnms&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQtZSavLfQAhVLJCYKHQx7A7kQ_AUIBygA&biw=1366&bih=638&dpr=1)

[ Touch you and touch and touch ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=xvii+e+e+cummings&hl=en&source=lnms&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQtZSavLfQAhVLJCYKHQx7A7kQ_AUIBygA&biw=1366&bih=638&dpr=1)

[until you give,”](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=xvii+e+e+cummings&hl=en&source=lnms&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQtZSavLfQAhVLJCYKHQx7A7kQ_AUIBygA&biw=1366&bih=638&dpr=1) Porthos says, dragging him closer.

 

“Alright, ee cummings wins, he’s such a sexy fuck. But you have to give me points for obscurity.”

 

“Adrienne Rich. You like her. She’s not exactly obscure, either. Fine, if you want points, I’ll give you points. I don’t think me nipples can dance, though,” Porthos says.

 

It makes Aramis fall about laughing, and they wander back toward the boat without ravishing each other in a field, even if it was probably just going to be in poetic form. Metaphorical, poetic sex. Porthos hums as he walks, thinking of better quotes for next time.

  



	7. Chapter 7

“I think that’s great, Porthos. I don’t think women doing Bad Things is anti feminist,” Sylvie says, passing back the new script. Porthos still looks worried. “You can’t make it perfect for everyone, but it’s great for my idea of feminism, it’s fine. I like my part, I like the way you’re directing me to play it, you’re not being misogynistic or whatever it is you think.”

 

“Okay, okay. You’re right, it’s fine, I’ll leave it alone. I need to finish up the publicity and email it to my mate, anyway. It’ll do,” Porthos says.

 

They’re lying by a river, just outside a place called Cropredy. Everyone else is still swimming, except Aramis who is asleep on the boat, after shouting and screaming at Porthos and Athos about something. It was hard to make out, he’d been incoherent. Sylvie isn’t asking. Porthos sits up with his tablet, tapping away. Sylvie stays lying there, sprawled, sun shining on her. They had a day and a half of rain, and she’s glad to be out of their little box.

 

“Can I flop down on top of you?” Athos asks, a bit later.

 

“Go ahead,” Sylvie says, holding out her arms.

 

He doesn’t fall completely on top of her, but more or less. He’s wet and laughing and wriggling, and considerably happy. He’d enjoyed the rain, sitting out in it, steering the boat, singing. He had also drunk a lot of wine. To keep warm. She’d told him he was an idiot, but then joined him out there, drinking, and laughed at his singing, then joined in. The rain hadn’t been all bad.

 

“You’re sun-warm. All yellow gold,” Athos says. “You’re glorious.”

 

“Yes, I am. Tomorrow, I’m going to walk to Farnborough hall. I think it’ll take about two hours, but it looks fun and I’ve never seen this house,” Sylvie says. “Come with?”

 

“A two hour walk?”

 

“With me.”

 

“Alright. If I must,” Athos says, heaving a great sigh.

 

“Eighteenth century, landscape done by Sanderson Miller. He did work on Hagley, where we went?”

 

“Oh yeah, the castle that was built ruined. Stupid.”

 

“Sanderson redid the landscaping at Farnborough. There’s a temple and an obelisk and it’s beautiful. You’ll like it. It’s a family estate, you’ll feel right at home,” Sylvie says.

 

“I grew up on an estate, why do you all make fun of me being rich?” Athos grumbles.

 

“Because you sound like a ponce!” Porthos calls, laughing. “And you went to that posh school.”

 

“Scholarship boy,” Athos says. “We didn’t actually have money.”

 

“And Oxford,” Porthos says.

 

“I didn’t,” Athos says.

 

“You got in,” Porthos says.

 

Sylvie tunes out their bickering. Athos and Porthos seem to have some kind of shorthand affection that involves a lot of teasing. She’ll have to get used to it, but she’s in no hurry to. She mostly just ignores it. d’Artagnan must do something, because Porthos roars and yells his name and then there are two splashes and laughter. Athos gets up and there’s another splash, then Constance comes and lies beside Sylvie.

 

“They’re being twats,” Constance complains. She’s wet and cold, so Sylvie draws her closer. “Athos won’t mind?”

 

“Dunno, don’t care, nothing romantic or sexy about cuddling, he cuddles the shite out of that lot he has no legs to stand on,” Sylvie says. Recites. She has her defence all lined up. She sighs. “Men are shits, Constance. I’ve actually practiced that speech, just in case.”

 

“Mm hmm. As someone who the world started perceiving female only halfway through, the difference is striking. I never did practise those speeches, before, but now I do. I had to have a conversation with d’Artagnan the other day about him taking my feelings into account, because he was cross with me for being upset by something really incredibly reasonable. What is that about? Fuckery, that’s what.”

 

“I really like Medea. It’s like a huge fuck you to men everywhere. She takes no shit whatsoever, she’s fantastic.”

 

“I must make a nice change from reading books about houses and bricks and things,” Constance says.

 

“Architecture,” Sylvie corrects. “Heritage and conservation. It’s fascinating. Shut up.”

 

“I love all the stuff you know about that, though, seriously. The play you wrote set in Ludlow castle was so incredibly spectacular. I still really want to see it performed there.”

 

“That was a fun one, wasn’t it? All Shakespeare woven in modernity and stuff. A play of people playing a play without being a play about playing a play. And there were ghosts.”

 

“Hunchback Richard yelling at Shakespeare and Hollinshead,” Constance says, sighing. “Absolute perfection.”

 

“I should Medea like that. I want to chat with her. Interview with Medea, in Elephant and Castle market,” Sylvie says, laughing.

 

“I like that idea. Maybe in a big old falling down house again, though. What about Chalfield? Wolf Hall-esque.”

 

“Corfe could be fun. Somewhere in Cornwall, maybe. Sea and rain and wind. I know it’s a Greek story, but the wild elements would be good,” Sylvie says. “Or maybe the place we’re going tomorrow. Farnborough.”

 

“Just don’t get lost and never return to us,” Constance says.

 

“Mm,” Sylvie says. “I’ve bought a map, that should get us there easily.”

 

It doesn’t, in the end, get them there easily. They get lost within twenty minutes, trying to avoid a biggish road. Athos is bad tempered about that, but Sylvie doesn’t mind.

 

“It’s a quest,” she says, spreading the map entirely open on a picnic table that’s randomly there, and trying to work out their position.

 

“Can I have a sandwich?” Athos asks, slumping at the table, looking sweaty and dejected and very hot.

 

“No. Drink some water, then we’ll get off again, I think I’ve worked it out.”

 

They walk for a further ten minutes before she’s sure they’re back on the right track. It’s only three roads, three slight direction changes. She manages not to get lost again, but she does take them off-route, wandering around for a while exploring. Athos catches on and grumbles, though, so she gets them to Farnborough.

 

“It only took us just over an hour,” Athos says, pleased.

 

“Yep. I told you the wrong time to make you happy when we got here,” Sylvie admits. “Shall we have a wander around the village?”

 

They find a pretty little church, and a sixteenth century gastro-pub which is a lot gastro, not a lot sixteenth century, and only a little pub. The food’s okay, though, and they sit outside, which is nice, and Athos likes it. He smokes, sprawled in his chair, a pint in hand, and sighs happily.

 

“You’re such a twat,” Sylvie says, fondly, shaking her head at him. “Do you even smoke?”

 

“Sometimes. Never got the habit. I’ve done it a fair bit, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get addicted. It’s just nice once in awhile,” Athos says.

 

“I’m not judging. Unless you do something that has an impact on me, then I reserve the right to tell you about it.”

 

“Okay. Um, I’ll attempt to do the same.”

 

She laughs at him more than is perhaps kind for that. He seems so earnest about it all. He glares at her, but then he grins and melts further into his chair, chuckling. She does get to see the hall. She goes through it room by room, with a guidebook, telling Athos in great detail all the things she knows about it, and lecturing him on the architecture. It’s a hobby of hers, that few people have the patience for. She likes bricks and mortar and history of structures. Athos listens carefully, as if storing it all away, but doesn’t light up until the gardens.

 

“You’re an outside body, really, aren’t you?” Sylvie asks, taking his arm and tucking it into her own as they stroll around the lakes.

 

“That or a big open fireplace. Or a library.”

 

“I don’t see you applying yourself to books much.”

 

“Good places to nap, libraries.”

 

Sylvie snorts. Athos is academic, sort of. The ‘sort of’ seems to be moreso than the ‘academic’, most of the time. Sometimes he’ll get onto a thing and research it into submission, and he does read. Some of it, he’s told her, is the depression. Sometimes he just doesn’t have the focus or motivation for it. Some of it, she’s pretty sure, is just him being much more interested in other things. Porthos, on the other hand. Porthos, she’s seen, reads everything and anything.

 

“This is beautiful,” Athos says, looking at the temple, leaning into her. “Sylvie, thank you for bringing me.”

 

“Of course. I will drag you to every beautiful crumbling heap in the UK,” Sylvie says. “We should go on a tour of Welsh castles. They’re magnificent. You can bring Porthos and d’Artagnan, if you like, and pretend you’re defending them or something. Swords and gunpowder and cannons. That sort of thing.”

 

“Aramis too?”

 

“I assumed Aramis goes wherever Porthos does. He’s…”

 

“He was upset about something, yesterday, and lost control of his temper. He’s quite hot headed. Don’t think of him like that, please? From that outburst.”

 

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” Sylvie says, though she had been. Athos squeezes her arm, and they move on.”I like him, I’m just learning new things about him here.”

 

By the time they get back to the boat, evening is giving way to night, though the sun is still out and high. d’Artagnan is sat on the roof, and waves to them when he spots them, scrambling down and coming to greet them, bouncing at Athos’s side and talking a mile a minute about his day.

 

“And you? Did you have fun at your house?” d’Artagnan asks, peering around Athos to smile at Sylvie.

 

“I’m starving,” Sylvie says, instead of answering.

 

“I’ll cook for you,” Athos says.

 

“I’ll cook,” Sylvie says. “I like cooking, I’m good at it. If I do it, it might not be fried-something-with-ketchup.”

 

“Hey, I make toast. That’s not fried,” Athos says.

 

Sylvie ignores that. She sets herself up in the galley, and thirty minutes later she’s got food and a glass of wine and is sitting with the others, Athos on one side of her, Constance on the other. When she’s done eating, she curls up against Athos, Constance’s hand resting on her ankle. She can feel Athos’s eyes on her. He touches her cheek now and then, her hair. Holds her. Kisses her. It’s nice.

 

“I’ve been wondering about costumes, Porthos,” Constance says.

 

“Bugger,” Porthos says.

 

He’s sat on the floor, his legs out in a ‘v’ in front of him, and he’s quite drunk. Aramis is sat cross legged in front of him seeming very pleased and amused by Porthos. Sylvie watches the two of them for a moment.

 

“I’ve thought of it,” Sylvie says. “I was going to put it to you, Porthos. I think I should wear just jeans and a shirt, and Constance should wear a slightly more formal version that visually matches. Aegeus should wear something expensive. Do you have any smart clothes, d’Artagnan?”

 

“Athos bought me a suit,” d’Artagnan says, blushing faintly. He’s sat on his own, on the opposite bunk, currently made up as a sofa. “I have it with me.”

 

“Why on earth?” Athos says. “Never mind. That’s great, d’Art.”

 

“Brilliant. What about, um, the other one. Aramis,” Porthos says. “What about Aramis?”

 

“Jason,” Aramis supplies, smiling widely.

 

“No,” Porthos says, frowning. “I meant you, ‘mis. Your part. I don’t know a Jason. What are you on about?”

 

“Exercise clothes,” Sylvie says. “And we cut everyone else, didn’t we?”

 

“d’Artagnan makes a brief appearance as the messenger. I gave Constance the nurse’s part, though,” Porthos says. “No Nurse, [alack the day! O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day! Most lamentable day, most woeful day](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=romeo%20and%20juliet&oq=romeo%20and%20juliet&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j0l5.2540j0j9)!”

 

Porthos falls backwards, lies on the floor, and is silent. Aramis lays himself on top of Porthos, laughing, and they start whispering. Sylvie stops watching them, instead turning to Constance. She’s beautiful, in the setting sun, hair burning gold-red. Sylvie reaches out to play with it, and Constance smiles at her. They’ve talked, since Athos said he wasn’t comfortable with them kissing. They’re only friends, now. Sometimes there’s still that little leaping spark between them. That can be between friends, too. Sylvie’s felt it for both romantic and platonic friends. She’s just fond of people. It’s different than with Athos, that’s enough for her to keep them separate, to keep Constance as a friend even in her mind. Constance rubs the arch of her foot, distracting her, and Sylvie leans into Athos, moaning.

 

“That’s so good,” she says, wriggling her toes.

 

“Hedonist,” Athos says. “We’ll take the crossbed, bagsies.”

 

“We’ll be fine on the floor,” Aramis says. “Porthos isn’t going anywhere. Great drunken lumpen darling of mine.”

 

“I guess we’ll take the bunks,” d’Artagnan says. “It’ll be better anyway, Connie, I always just want to-”

 

“d’Artagnan! Keep them thoughts on the inside of your skull!” Constance says. “He’s so bloody young, Athos! Always rarin’ to go!”

 

Sylvie laughs, nudging her friend’s thigh, knowing Constance has absolutely no complaints about d’Artagnan in that respect. They wind their ways to bed, after that. Sylvie gets to be the little spoon, Athos curled around her. She’s warm and safe, and it’s been a wholly happy day. She falls asleep with visions of great halls, beautiful architecture, and mad ionic temples and obelisks.

 

*

 

“When we get to Oxford, we’re going shopping,” Sylvie says, plonking down next to Constance in the grass, next day.

 

They’ve just gone all the way through their play, twice, and Porthos has given them screeds of notes before buggering off to do administration. He’s a very demanding, exacting director, which Sylvie isn’t keen on, even with his gentleness. He’s good, and he compromises with her, working more the way she prefers, but he’s still demanding and exacting and it’s not her prefered style. She likes it when her directors are more focussed on the overall piece and less on her every single syllable.

 

“I hate shopping,” Constance grumbles. “Plus Oxford’s rubbish for it.”

 

“We can go look for shoes, too,” Sylvie weedles. “They must have some shops. I want to try on pretty dresses and flounce around, and I need sunglasses, and I want a better shade of lipstick. This one is useless with my skin, it’s entirely the wrong shade of purple. I want to get my hair done, too.”

 

“Hair, shoes... done. I like hair and shoes,” Constance says. “We’re such girls.”

 

“You’re such a dork.”

 

“I tried really hard to like shopping, I thought it was needed, to be a woman,” Constance says. “But, nah, I’m happy disliking it. Met plenty of women who dislike it. Plus I don’t give a fuck. Aramis’ll want to come, he adores shopping. Say no, though. He’s a terrible shopper.”

 

“I confiscated his cards,” Porthos says, coming off the boat with a plate of sandwiches. “He’s not getting them back till after Oxford. He’s got a temp card, with a limit.”

 

“Aw,” Sylvie says, laughing.

 

“Last time he went shopping he spent six hundred quid on shoes,” Porthos says.

 

“They were good shoes,” Aramis calls, from the bows. “He made me give them back! My lovely boots.”

 

“It’s not exorbitant for good boots,” Sylvie says.

 

“See, Porthos? It was a good buy!” Aramis cries, popping up. “[One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=much%20ado%20about%20nothing&oq=much%20ado%20about%20nothing&aqs=chrome.0.0l6.2453j0j9) [. ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome-psyapi2&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8&q=much%20ado%20about%20nothing&oq=much%20ado%20about%20nothing&aqs=chrome.0.0l6.2453j0j9)But _I_ am constant to shoes, and a good buy. And you, darling.”

 

Porthos goes to join him in the bows, to bicker about shoes and money probably. Sylvie ignores them, shutting her eyes, soaking up the sun. It’s the last she gets for a while – the next three days it rains and thunders. They moor in Banbury and stay put, and spend time in the Café Nero to escape the box of a boat. Athos, again, sits happily in the rain, though. At least one of them enjoys it.

 

While the rain pounds down, Porthos writes, Aramis curls up wherever Porthos is and is miserable, d’Artagnan and Constance take advantage of them all abandoning ship and probably have sex. Athos sits in it and enjoys himself, taking walks up and down the canal, wandering town. Sylvie’s at a bit of a loose end, so she goes shopping. There’s a shopping centre, with a New Look and an H&M among other things. She tries on heaps of dresses and heeled shoes. There’s even an HMV left, so she buys Athos a CD of John Martyn on a whim.

 

“It’ll take us two days to get to Oxford. We could do it in a single day, but it’ll be nicer not to. Where are we doing this, Porthos? Did you think about that, yet?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah. there’s an old boatyard, in Jericho. It’s shut down, but a canal boat rental still works out of there and they owe my mate a favour. We’re going to use the yard for the audience. There are visitor moorings a bit further down, so we can hitch up there and do it for passers by. There’s just not a lot of space towards town, on the path, and the bank isn’t great. We’ll have to change it a bit, so you’re all always on the boat. I think we can do that?”

 

“Yes, you made us do a runthrough entirely on the boat,” Sylvie says. They’re midships, sat around the table, considering their next move. They’re all fed up with Banbury, that at least is agreed. “Athos and me are going to do some tourist things, and Connie and me are going shopping, so I vote for leaving tomorrow morning and getting there a bit early, mooring up in town.”

 

“Two day slots, up there,” Porthos says. “If we can get one. If we go further than halfway tomorrow, and set out really really early, we can get the mooring as people leave, before the next arrive.”

 

“Sorted,” d’Artagnan says.

 

Sylvie makes them some pasta for dinner, and Aramis even comes out of his cocoon of jumpers and hoods and, currently, blankets, to join them. Porthos feeds him, teases him, gets a laugh out of him, then goes to bed looking almost as dejected as Aramis. Aramis trails after him making grouchy noises until he’s snuggled up against Porthos again. Athos snorts in their general direction.

 

“Just because the rain cheers _you_ up,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m with Aramis. I’m hoping for sunshine, tomorrow. Did they take the cross bed?”

 

“No, they’re jammed onto a bunk,” Athos says. “I want the cross. Please?”

 

“My turn,” d’Artagnan says.

 

“I’m having it,” Sylvie says. “I got my period this morning, and want to be comfortable.”

 

Athos gives her a sideways look, then nods along. She’s pretty sure her period might happen at some point, so. It sort of counts. Plus, she deserves the bed, she had a hard day’s shop today. And she wants Athos. He’s been wet and distant, with the rain. d’Artagnan and Constance end up nesting on the floor. Porthos’s snoring is noisy and annoying, but Sylvie’s almost used to it by now. She sleeps just fine.

 

They make it to Oxford by about eight am, a day and a night later, and Sylvie drags Athos off into town to examine the historic heart of the city. She finds him an uninterested audience, until they find someone who writes down all the Harry Potter filming locations. He goes off on an excited rant about Alan Rickman and how awesome he is, and how he actually met him once.

 

“He was so nice, and so polite, and really really nice about this little ten year old bugging him. He told me I would make a great actor,” Athos says, sighing happily over a tree in New College grounds.

 

Sylvie hums in agreement and wanders off to look at the city wall, leaving him to his jubilation. He also enjoys the historic pubs, and the tower they climb. They end up at Merton college. They find Porthos and Aramis looking around the real tennis court. They’ve talked someone into letting them have a go. Athos cheers as Porthos wins what might be a point.

 

“I take it back. I don’t mind sightseeing afteral” Aramis says. “This is great.”

 

[“His present and your pains we thank you for: when we have march'd our rackets to these balls, we will, in France, by God's grace, play a set shall strike his father's crown into the hazard,” ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?espv=2&q=henry+v+shakespeare&oq=henry+V+sha&gs_l=serp.3.0.0l10.2275.4292.0.5215.8.7.1.0.0.0.254.860.2j2j2.6.0....0...1c.1.64.serp..1.4.678.PIH_iiRteSw)Porthos roars, flinging a ball cheerfully at the wall and cantering over to them, throwing his arms around both Athos and Aramis in an enthusiastic squeeze that might be called a hug.

 

When he lets them go, he turns on Sylvie, and submits her to a gentler though no less enthusiastic embrace. She allows it, then enjoys it. He’s big and soft and good at hugging. When he lets her go she tucks herself into Athos’s side, a little shy.

 

“Let’s go to that bear pub,” Porthos says. “Apparently a pint is over four quid, so it must be good.”

 

“It’s a chain,” Aramis says, dismissing it.

 

“So? So’s everything. I am not walking all the way up to the Eagle and Child just because Tolkien used to camp out there. That’s a chain, too, I’ll bet you anything,” Porthos says.

 

They leave arm in arm, probably to go to neither of those pubs. Athos and Sylvie cross the road and look at Oriel, then sit on the grass in Christ Church meadows and Athos talks some more about Alan Rickman.

  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Aramis, Porthos decides, looks good in just about anything. Even stupid jogging gear. The swagger helps. Porthos knows he’s supposed to be being a director and watching for stuff and making sure things go smooth and making notes for his actors, but honestly, he’s on holiday. And Aramis is hot, so Porthos is basically just sprawled in the audience, ogling him, instead. Aramis won’t mind a bit. 

 

Sylvie puts a stop to it. She definitely has stage presence. Porthos is definitely writing more for her. She whirls onto stage, takes it by storm. Her voice rings through the yard, across the canal. She’s got such a fierce way of standing, her chin tilted up, pride and fury steaming off her. When she turns to Constance she softens, and with Aramis, too, until her anger breaks over him. So much anger at so many wrongs and hurts. 

 

Porthos sits forwards and listens to her, even though he knows her lines, has seen and heard her do it a hundred times. Athos, at his side, is beaming, eyes glued to Sylvie. She is compelling. She seems to be talking to each person in the audience. She moves almost among them, engages with her fellows on stage, connects with everyone. She turns, hair flying around her, and makes for Constance, embracing her, back trembling, and then she pledges to kill her children. 

 

Constance lifts her, which Porthos had forgotten he’d suggested. A restraining, embracing move, begging her not to, to stay safe in the chorus’s arms. But, no. Sylvie ends up behind Constance, Constance’s head bowed, and the story moves inexorably forward, toward the forgone conclusion. Constance sits back on the boat, muttering to herself, casting Sylvie worried glances while Sylvie argues with Aramis, casting looks up at the sky, talking about Gods whenever the other two break off. 

 

“That’s really good,” Athos murmurs. 

 

Porthos nods. The three of them make it work so well, fitting seamlessly around one another, their characters all with a moral dilemma, all missing each other. Missing the point. The point which is the children, inside the house, invisible, voiceless. Sometimes they speak in the translations, sometimes they don’t. Porthos decided to keep them silent, there only as phantoms, dead before they die. 

 

As the play ends, Porthos gets up and slips away to the table they’ve set up with the slight programmes they printed, just a few with basic info, and the tickets. He doesn’t mention who he is or his part in the show, just stores the compliments to pass on, finding some paper to set up with a pen if people want to write notes. Which some do. When the space is finally clear, he totes up their takings, and sits back. 

 

“Even?” Athos asks, leaning on the table. 

 

“More or less. Most of the cost was covered by favours owed me,” Porthos says. “Enough to make it worthwhile. We have another performance here this evening, then tomorrow we’ll do the curtailed version on the other bank. We shouldn’t be at much of a loss.”

 

“Any notes, sir?” d’Artagnan says, grinning, bouncing, leaping, springing. 

 

“Nope,” Porthos says. “I forgot to make any. You were all good. Oh, you shouldn’t give in so much, in your scene with Sylvie, though. Don’t be afraid to take up space. Aegeus is a warrior, a mythological one. You need more weight to you. Gotta show the difference between you with Jason, and you with Medea. Status, gender, class.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” d’Artagnan says, looking dejected. 

 

Porthos flicks through the two pages of comments and passes one to d’Artagnan, which makes him brighten again. It’s a compliment for both his scenes. 

 

“Don’t worry, chick,” Porthos says. “You were great. Just, moreso, tonight. Own it. Where’s Aramis?”

 

“He and Sylvie were trying to get their makeup off,” d’Artagnan says. “I thought I’d just keep mine.”

 

Constance comes over and tells him he looks pretty, giggling, and he returns the favour, and they coo at each other for a bit. Until Athos loses patience and shoves himself between them, glowering. Porthos gives them more of the audience’s compliments. He’s about to go looking for Aramis, when Flea comes striding into the courtyard, and he forgets everything but her, leaping up to embrace her, laughing. 

 

“It was good, then?” Flea asks. “I’ll come by tonight, if I can get away.”

 

“From your students. An Oxford lecturer, my little sister!” Porthos crows. 

 

“I ain’t your sister, you slept with me more than once that’s weird, and it’s guest lecturer to a summer school with the continued education department,” Flea says, but she’s smiling and proud anyway, so he squashes her to him. 

 

Aramis comes over and rests a hand on Porthos’s shoulder, waiting patiently for Porthos to be done hugging. When Porthos does pull away, Aramis kisses both Flea’s cheeks. 

 

“Congratulations on your lecturing. It’s a Shakespeare summer school?” Aramis says. 

 

“Yes. It’s good, they’re mature students, all really keen to be there. Some are a bit weird, and they’re coming at everything from a critical rather than theatrical perspective, but it’s interesting. You’d like some of them, Porthos, they have weird ideas for adapting Shakespeare,” Flea says. 

 

“We’re going to the pub, after tonight, come along and tell us about it,” Aramis says. “Porthos, I’m gonna grab some lunch and look over things for tonight, then take a nap. Come find me?”

 

“Yep,” Porthos agrees, turning to accept a kiss. Aramis wanders off. “So? How are you? Have you heard from Charon recently? He’s ignoring my texts because I insulted his boyfriend again. He’s a twat, right? Have you met him? When are you next contracted, because I have something in mind that I’m writing you into? And when are you coming to visit me in London?”

 

Flea laughs at him, links their arms, and walks him through what she tells him is Jericho (seems to just be part of the city to him, he'd expected something different), to a café for lunch and catching up and gossip. It’s Greek, and they sit in the garden, and it’s so good to see her. Porthos only gives her two hours, though, then he sighs and suggests they go back to their respective jobs. She promises to come to the pub later, then leaves him to walk back alone. 

 

No one’s around, when he gets back to the boat. Just Aramis, spread out on the crossbed, and a note from Athos saying the others had gone to lunch and then planned a bit of a walk. Porthos sits on the bed, and sighs. He’s tired, and there’s a throb from his binder that he’s been ignoring, a bit of a headache he’s pretending doesn’t exist. Aramis sits up, keeping his eyes shut, and fumbles with Porthos until Porthos takes his shirt off, letting Aramis help him out of the binder.

 

“You shouldn’t wear it when it pains you,” Aramis scolds, gently, with no heat. 

 

“It’s fine,” Porthos says, shortly, kicking off his shoes and lying on his side, pulling a pillow over his head. Then he un-pillows himself and flops over, grinning. “No one’s here.”

 

“They went to get food and to walk,” Aramis says. 

 

“Mm. Shall we put a sock on the door?”

 

“A sock? Why on earth- oh! Yes, you romantic bugger. Oh how you woo me, darling.”

 

Porthos scrambles up and finds a sock. Their sock shenanigans don’t help his headache, but lying spread over the bed afterwards, eyes shut, basking in the sensations still chasing themselves through his body, he doesn’t really give much of a damn about the little tingles and spikes of pain. Aramis notices them somehow anyway, and gets up on his elbows, planted either side of Porthos’s head, and massages his temples until he’s relaxed, humming with each circular rub. 

 

“You should be babying me,” Aramis grumbles. “I did all the hard work, this afternoon. You just ogled my bum.”

 

“It’s such a beautiful bony bottom, my love,” Porthos murmurs. “Them muscular thighs, that arse, the way you move. You’re lovely and all.”

 

“Carry on,” Aramis says. 

 

“The curve of your spine, the dip. The energetic grace of you.”

 

“My arse is energetic and graceful,” Aramis purrs, pleased with the compliment, though that hadn’t exactly been what Porthos meant. Not exactly. Porthos doesn’t mention it. 

 

“Oi! Are you two done yet? I’m bored!” d’Artagnan shouts, banging on the door. 

 

“We’re naked!” Aramis calls back happily. “Naked and wrestling!”

 

“Just because we’re doing a Greek play doesn’t mean you have to be so Greek about everything!” Constance calls. 

 

“I think that’s racist,” Aramis says, to Porthos, laughing. 

 

Porthos pulls on his pants and jeans, then hesitates over the binder. Aramis sits up behind him, bracketing him in muscular thighs, and runs fingers over the places the binder leaves marks in his skin. Porthos sighs, but nods, and lets Aramis gets him into a shirt without the binder. It’s not like his breasts are huge. They’re quite small, and he can almost pass without binding. He just hates them. He sits hunched while Aramis gets dressed and lets the others in. 

 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks, making a beeline for him and sitting close. 

 

“Binder was hurting,” Porthos grumbles.

 

Athos grimaces in sympathy, and a little of the unhappiness lifts from Porthos, he sits a little straighter. Constance comes and sits the other side of Athos, and Porthos leans back, consciously opening up his body language and relaxing. He smiles. 

 

“Ready for tonight?” he asks. “We’ve got a couple of lights, but it’s not fantastic so you’ll have to be aware of that.”

 

“I had a thought about masks, but I forgot about it till now,” Sylvie says. “That would have been good, in low light. Never mind.”

 

“It shouldn’t be too dark, it’s still staying light quite late,” d’Artagnan says. 

 

“You did practices in low light,” Constance says. “We’ll be as brilliant as we were this afternoon. Are you going to leave out paper for feedback again? That was nice.”

 

“Two whole pages,” Porthos says, beaming proudly around at them, his mish mash temporary troupe. “That’s a pretty lot of it, eh?

 

“[The best actors in the world, either for tragedy,](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

[ comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

[ historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical- ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

[ comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

[ poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

[ Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

[ liberty, these are the only men. ](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=hamlet&oq=hamlet&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i60j69i65j69i59j69i60l2.926j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)

 

“And women. Should change that to people,” Porthos says. 

 

“You know that’s a joke, right?” Aramis says, coming over with a plate of sandwiches. “But thank you all the same.”

 

“What about me? Have I not been indispensible?” Athos says, dry and sarcastic. 

 

“You’ve been great,” Porthos says, seriously. “Selling tickets, sitting with me, typing things for me. Don’t denigrate yourself. Now. d’Artagnan, that scene with Aramis was lovely this afternoon, do that again. You know about the next, with Sylvie, so we’ll pass on. Sylvie, you really brought Medea to life, let’s do that again? And keep that connection with Constance, that’s lovely from both of you. Keep the energy up, and just do what you do best. Afterwards, I will buy you all a pint.”

 

d’Artagnan cheers, around a mouthful of sandwich, and nearly spits it out laughing at himself. Porthos watches him, later, on stage. He moves differently. He’s always seemed young, but on stage he lets his limbs look long and overgrown, lets himself be a teenager, though with control over his body. An athletic teenager. He later holds his character and his own with Sylvie, keeping the loping gait, the grin, the little quirks of youth, but straightening out his shoulders, carrying himself differently again. A young king, giving way to Medea out of choice and political wisdom.

 

He glances in the direction of the house, of Jason, as well. As if looking to his ex lover, thinking of him, weighing things up. He includes Jason in his decision to harbour Medea, without speaking a word to say so. Porthos smiles, tapping his thumb against his breastbone as a reminder to compliment d’Artagnan on that, later. After d’Artagnan leaves the stage, Porthos is free to observe Sylvie again. She doesn’t need any notes, so he relaxes. He does pay attention to how her performance is knitting with the overall piece, but otherwise turns his director’s brain off. 

 

Aramis weeps over his dead children, this performance, kneeling there in front of the boat, facing Sylvie. Constance hovers, not daring to approach, and Sylvie looks on in scorn before turning away, refusing him access to his children even in death. She says she’ll take them to the temple, and then she wanders through the audience, as if lost, directionless, into the dim evening, around a corner. Porthos breathes out. He’d had a thought about it, this afternoon, and mentioned something in passing, but he hadn’t expected that, and hadn’t expected the effect of her gait, her pride, her anger, her rightousness. Her sadness, her grief, her guilt. The weight of it all. 

 

He cheers with the rest when they all come to take their bows before climbing into the boat. He stands with the rest, cheers again with the rest until they return and take another bow. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles shrilly with the rest. He’s just an audience member, and he loves it. He stands and tells everyone about his actors, this time, talking about how hard they worked and how brilliant they’ve been to direct. He’s talking to a serious young person when Aramis comes tearing over and leaps onto his back, wrapping around him like an octopus. 

 

“That was so fun,” Aramis says. 

 

“I’m pretty informal, as a director,” Porthos says, to his audience member, who’s laughing at him. “This one is a complete pain and the most difficult man to work with.”

 

“I’m a wonder to work with, I’m smooth and nice and wonderful,” Aramis says, biting Porthos’s ear. 

 

He yelps and shakes himself loose from Aramis’s arms, and Aramis laughs, bouncing off to bother Athos at the tickets and programmes table. Porthos goes back to his conversation, then moves on to another person, and another, gently guiding them to the exit. He comes across Flea at the table with Athos, and embraces her, a rush of joy at seeing her again filling him to bursting. Athos scrambles up, and Porthos thinks something’s wrong. It’s just Sylvie, though, coming across arm in arm with d’Artagnan, her hair piled on top of her head, smiling widely. Athos hugs her hard enough to lift her off her feet, and showers her in praises before bearing her off to the boat. Constance comes scrambling out a minute later and hurries over. 

 

“They’re socking it,” Constance says. “Pub?”

 

“Rickity Press?” Flea suggests. “Or the Bookbinders.”

 

“Jericho Tavern,” d’Artagnan says. Then, when they all look at him. “What? I went to school here, till a-levels. I’m a farmer’s son, we’re posh.”

 

“Farmers aren’t posh,” Constance says. 

 

“Firmly middle class, we are,” d’Artagnan says. “Jericho Tavern, yes?”

 

“It’s a nice pub,” Flea admits, arm around Porthos’s waist. 

 

“Can I get a piggy back? I’m tired,” Aramis says. 

 

“Yeah, sure. From d’Art,” Porthos says, shaking Aramis’s hand off his shoulder. 

 

Aramis jumps up anyway, and Porthos carries him willingly enough, indulging him. It won’t hurt, just the once. The weight of him is nice, anyway. Comforting. Warm. Beautiful. 


	9. Chapter 9

Athos takes them back out of Oxford, after their last canal-side performance. Porthos is full of praise, piling it all on them, directing it all their way when it comes. He’s also very happy about them breaking even. They all get a small payment, which Sylvie hadn’t expected. Porthos promises it’s from money they made on top of cost, and not out of his pocket. The way he stares at the computer screen when he does a spreadsheet convinces her he’s not lying.

 

She walks with him, up near Yarnton, while the others deal with the two locks close together. He’s quiet, contemplative, but not bad company. He seems comfortable around her, his binder missing. Athos pointed that out to her. She doesn’t really know quite what to make of Porthos. Aramis is easy, Constance she likes. Even d’Artagnan has become easy company, verging on a friend.

 

“I’d like to write you into my next play,” Porthos says, when they reach the second lock, sitting on the verge. “If that would be acceptable. It doesn’t promise you the part, I’m rarely involved in casting or directing my own stuff. But I’d make sure you get an audition, and you’re superb, so you won’t have any trouble.”

 

“I would be flattered,” Sylvie says.

 

“Good.”

 

He doesn’t spend much more time with her. When they reach Banbury Aramis and Porthos leave them, getting a train back to London. Something about a TV series Aramis is in that got renewed, and a theatre thing he’s doing. Sylvie hugs Aramis, and clasps Porthos’s arm, and then leaves the others to their goodbyes, going to sit in the bows. Constance joins her, and they talk about other things. Clothes, theatre, literature. Idle things, as they cross their minds. Athos is next back, and d’Artagnan last. They unmoore, and thread their way further up the canal.

 

Constance and d’Artganan are met at the top of the Oxford Canal, by Constance’s brother who lives close and wanted to meet d’Artagnan. Sylvie hugs Constance hard and Constance hugs her back. There’s a surprisingly wobbly feeling in Sylvie, as if she might cry at this parting.

 

“Oof. You’re squeezin’ me so hard you might pop my boobs out, Syl,” Constance says, laughing. “Promise I’ll see you soon. I’m in Bath, doing theatre, and then filming for my two Doctor Who episodes in Cardiff. We’ll stay in touch, and visit each other.”

 

“Yes,” Sylvie agrees.

 

“What are you doing next?” Constance asks.

 

“I’m not sure,” Sylvie admits. “Depends on Athos, I think. I want to do more Shakespeare. I love that.”

 

“Don’t we all?” Constance says. “Let me know when you know. Oh I’ll miss you! Alright. I’m going, now. Bye, bye.”

 

Sylvie watches her long after she’s out of sight. Athos stands with her, his chin resting gently, carefully, on her shoulder, his arms around her, cradling her. Gently, warmly. She turns at last, into him, and lets him take her back to the boat.

 

They go slowly and quietly, puttering their way back to Stratford. Athos’s long term mooring is just outside the town. They arrive quietly, late at night, and moor up. Sylvie curls up in the cross bed, held by Athos, and decides she doesn’t mind what happens next. This summer has been so surreal. So happy. Being with other jobbing actors, learning about what they can do when they come together, the canal boat, the quiet. Athos. Yes, she’s quite content letting it come, seeing what happens.

 

 

“It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue;

but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord

the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs

no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no

epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes,

and good plays prove the better by the help of good

epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am

neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with

you in the behalf of a good play! I am not

furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not

become me: my way is to conjure you; and I'll begin

with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love

you bear to men, to like as much of this play as

please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love

you bear to women--as I perceive by your simpering,

none of you hates them--that between you and the

women the play may please. If I were a woman I

would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased

me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I

defied not: and, I am sure, as many as have good

beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my

kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.”

-Shakespeare, As You Like It

  
  


_~fin~_


End file.
